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OUR FAVORITES 



OVR FAFORITE POETS AND POEMS 
OLD AND NEIV 



THEIR HOMES FULLY DESCRIBED AND ILLUSTRATED 

POEMS AND SONGS WITH A HISTORY 

FAVORITE THOUGHTS BEAUTIFULLY TOLD 

COMPILED BY 

MRS. GEN. O. C. MAXWELL 



llUuetrate^ 

SOLD ONLY BY SUBSCRIPTION 







Star Publishing Company 

NEW YORK CITY 



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Copyright, j8gi 
By W. T. KIGHTLINGER 



MANUFACTURED BY 

STAR PUBLISHING COMPANY 
New York City 









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INTRODUCTION, 



In " Our Favorites " we have mtrodnced all lovers of lit- 
erature into a charmed circle of reading that will please, 
fascinate, and instruct. In the poems nothing that could 
in the slightest degree prove objectionable has been ad- 
mitted, while many of them are those that have exhilarated 
and intoxicated the human family for many years past, 
and will continue to do so for ages to come. We have also 
gathered numerous sweet and tender poems, that in a mo- 
ment of inspu'ation were breathed out from obscure sources 
into an immortal Uterary life. We have about fifty of 
these poems that have never been in book form, all pure 
in language, lofty in sentiment, bright and sparkling. 
These productions have just as firm a hold on the affections 
of the people as have the utterances of the old masters. 
Indeed, a wide scope of " Favorites " of to-day could not 
be brought together without these selections. 

Our " Favorites' Homes " take us right into the home 
life of our writers, and nothing could make their writings 
of more interest to us than to know their home and sur- 
roundings. It is an entirely new feature, and one we know 
win be found as instructive and attractive as it is new. 







■». INTBODUCTION. 

The departmentj " History of Song and Verse," is posi- 
tively enchanting. Even an ordinary production is set 
afire with interest when we find hidden behind it a history 
of love, patriotism, or sacrifice ; then how much greater 
must be this charm when given a production that is 
already a favorite. The selections under that head are 
highly interesting and instructive, and a feature of the 
book that must please the most skeptical. The closing 
pages of " Favorite Thoughts " are beautifully adapted for 
memorizing or album verses. 

All in all, it has been the aim to make quite complete 
these different thoughts and thus in one volume give, to 
those who feel they have not time and means for a more 
extended research, a comprehensive scope in these different 
fields of literature. 

With this introduction we send our work forth upon 
its mission, coupled with the earnest wish that the pleas- 
ure of its perusal may equal that resulting from its prep- 
aration. 

Dayton, 0., June 1, 1891. 






CONTENTS 




HOMES, AND HISTOKIC POEMS. 



America, 279 

Bryant, William Cullen, 31 

Come, Ye Sinners, Poor and Needy, . . Joseph Hart, 236 

Darling Nellie Gray, Ben R. Haraby, .... 267 

Evangeline, 260 

Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah, . . William WilHams, . . . 229 

Hold the Fort, 291 

Holmes, Oliveb Wendell, 59 

I Want to be an Angel, Mrs. Sidney P. Grill, . . 243 

Jesus, My All to Heaven is Gone, . . . John Cennick, .... 235 
Lord, Dismiss Us With Thy Blessing, . Walter Shirley, . . . .238 

Longfellow, Henry W., 15 

Lowell, James Kussell, 25 

Nearer, My God To Thee, Mrs. Sarah Flower Adams, 240 

©"Eeilly, John Boyle, 69 

Praise God, from Whom All Blessings Flow, Thomas Ken, 234 

Sweet By-and-By, 249 

Suwanee Eiver, Stephen C Foster, . . . 250 

Taylor, Bayard, 51 

Watchman, Tell Us of the Night, . . . Sir John Bowring, . . . 242 
Whittieb, John G-, - . 41 



OUE FAVOEITES. 




A Friendly Hand, Constitution, 305 

Ain't He Cute, 151 

After The Burial, Henry W. Ijongfellow, . . 253 

Alone, Robert J. Burdette, . . . 144 

All Hallow E'en (Illustrated), 149 

All Hail The Power Of Jesus' Name, . . Edward Perronet, . . . 232 

An Order, Mrs. Sarah De W. Gamivell, 196 

Annabel Lee, Edgar Allen Poe, . . . 206 

An Order for a Picture, AU^e Gary, 

Annie's and Willie's Prayer, 181 





t 



CONTENTS. 



An August Rime, Sden Chase, 115 

A Prisoner for Debt, John G. Wkittier, . . . 256 

A Parody, 341 

Asleep at the Switch, 343 

A Touch of Nature, 271 

339 
269 
94 
222 
155 



Demarest Magazine, 




A Voice from the Poor-House, . . 

A Veritable Poem of Poems, 

Broken Fan, The (Illustrated), .... Anna Stiger Winston, 

Bravest of Battles, The, Joaquin Miller, . . 

Blue and Gray, Marietta Libby Slaighf, 

Brakesman, The Gallant, 336 

Bustin' the Temperance Man, . . , . A. F. Harvey, .... 134 

Back Where They Used to Be, . . . . J. W. Biley, 394 

Burns, Fii^ Green HaUack, . . 404 

Cabin Philosophy, J. H. Macon, 114 

Cane-Bottomed Chair, The, W. M. Thackeray, . . 328 

Christmas-Mght, In the Quarters, . . . Irwin Russell, , , . 174 

Christmas Baby, The, Will Carleton, .... 383 

Creation, Joseph Addison, .... 131 

Creeds of the Bells, The, Geo. W. Bungay, . . .112 

Curfew Must Not Eing To-Night, 216 

Coming Millions, The, S.W. Foss, 368 

Curious Literary Production, 259 

Dapple Mare, The, J. G. Saxe, 85 

Daniel Gray, J. G, Holland, .... 101 

Elegy Written in a Country Church- Yard, Thomas Gray, 218 

Father What'er of Earthly Bliss, . . . Mrs. Steele, 239 

From Greenland's Icy Mountains, . . . Reginald Heber, .... 245 

Fourth of July, The, 342 

Fireman's Story, The, 387 

Failed, .-213 

Four Sunbeams, Wonrnds Magazine, . . 223 

Forty Years Ago, 91 

Freedom, James Russell LoweU, . . 73 

Farewell, , Thmnas Moore, .... 129 

Fishing Party, The, J. W. Reilly (in Century), 154 

Family Financiering, S.W. Foss (in Blade), . 154 

Funeral, The, Will Carleton, .... 88 

Grand Army Button, The, J. F. Eaton, 166 

Going Away, Thomas Frost (in Herald), 121 

Good-Night, 398 

Grumbling Old Woman, That, .... Ruth Chesterfield, . . .212 

Guilty or Not Guilty, 225 

Home Sweet Home, From, John Howard Payne, . . 51 

He Sendeth Sun, Mrs. Sarah Flower Adams, 241 

He Worried About It, S.W. Foss, 310 






t 




CONTENTS. 



Hannah Jane, . . D. B. Locke, 

Half- Way Doin's, Irwin Bussell, .... 

Handful of Earth, A, Celia Thaxter, .... 

Hit the Nail on the Head, Sidney Dyer, 

Health to Tom Moore, Byron, 

Heaven, . Ella Wheeler Wilcox, . . 

Hunch-Back Jim, Beginald Bametf, . . . 

Home, 

In Answer, Bose Sartwick Thome, . . 

It Snows, Mrs. S. J. Hale, . . . . 

Inquiry, The, Charles MacJcey, . . . . 

In the Mining Town, Bose Hartwick Thome, . . 

Isle of Long Ago, The, B. T. Taylor, 

It Might Have Been, 

Jolly Old Pedagogue, The, 

John Maynard, 

John Bums of Gettysburg, Bret Harte, 

Jack's Way, Browne Perriman{jn Blade) 

Katie Lee and Willie Gray, 

Kiss in the Tvmnel, The, Free Press, 

Kings of England, The, 

Little Meg and I, C T. Murphy, .... 

Lost Babies, The, 

Last Hymn, The, 

Leaving the Homestead, 

Lightning-Rod Dispenser, The, .... Carleton, 

Lines on a Skeleton, 

Little Peddler, The, Watchman, 

Let By-Gones be By-Gones, 

Leadville Jim, W. W. Fink, 

Lady Clare, 

Mother's Fool, Mrs. Sophia P. Snow, . . 

Mortality, . . . , Wm. King, 

Memory J. B. O'Reilly, To the, .... John McCann, .... 

Milkmaid, The, Jeffreys Taylor, .... 

Man with the Musket, Milwaukee Sentinel, . . . 

My Mother-in-Law, Herald, 

My Mother, Walter Scott, 

My Early Home, Alexander Clark, .... 

Mercy to Animals, William Cowper, . . . 

Married for Love, Harper's 

Measuring the Baby, Emma Alice Brown, . . 

Mother's Reproof, The, Mrs. E. P. Bequa, . . . 

Model Church, The, 

Make the Best of It, 

My Boat is on the Shore, Byron, 




362 
323 
375 
225 
295 

84 
119 

64 
152 
297 
299 
301 
327 
376 
305 
317 
395 
303 
320 
367 
268 
315 
390 
330 
331 
370 
265 
372 
224 
207 
136 
167 
199 





CONTENTS. 




No Time Like The Old Time, .... Oliver Wendell Holmes, . 80 

Nobody's Child, Phila H. Case, .... 168 

New Year's Eve, Eugene Field, 173 

No Sects in Heaven, E. H. J. Cleveland, . . . 190 

'Ostler Joe, Geo. B. Simms, .... 170 

Only a Baby's Hand, Chicago Journal, . . . 201 

Our Pattern, Phcebe Gary, 97 

Old Man Goes to Town, The, . . . . J. G. Swinexton, .... 103 

Old Familiar Faces, Charles Lamb, .... 116 

Old Arm-Chair, The, Eliza Cook, 145 

Old Times, WiUiam B. Eggleston, . . 147 

Our Own, Margaret E. Sangster, . . 151 

Old Grandpa's Soliloquy', 835 

Our Christmas, Julia Walcott, .... 353 

One of the Little Ones, ...*... Geo. L. Cadin, .... 381 

Old Ironsides, 274 

Plantation Proverbs, 338 

Parting, 352 

Patrick Dolin's Love-Letter, 360 

Pat's Confederate Pig, Emerson Brooks, .... 164 

Pied Piper of Hamelin, The, Bobert Browning, . . . 185 

Papa's Letter, 193 

Paul Eevere's Eide, Henry W. Longfelhw, . . 202 

Pegging Away, 215 

Philip Barton, Engineer, 307 

Price of a Drink, The, 135 

Eock of Ages, Augustus Toplady, . . . 230 

Eock Me to Sleep, ... * Mrs. Akers, 79 

Eeason Why, The, Katharine H. Terry, . . 304 

Eoom at the Top, Mrs. A. Gelding Park, . 341 

Eepentance, Dora Greenwall, .... 385 

Eetrospect, J. D. H, 338 

Eide of Great Grandmother Lee, . . . Eben Bexford, .... 356 

Eeveries of the Old Kitchen, 296 

Sleeping Sentinel, Frarwis De Hoes Janvier, 157 

Spelling Down, WUl Gifford, 312 

Strange Love, A, H. C. Dodge, 321 

Somebody's Mother, Harper's, 333 

Song Without Words, A, Mary Elizabeth Blake, . . 377 

Snow, The, • . 124 

Stray Sunbeam, A, Frank M. Gilbert, . . . 132 

Star-Spangled Banner, The, Mr. Key, 247 

Starless Crown, The, J. L. H., 227 

Sheridan's Eide, L. B. Bead, . . - . . .280 

Stage-Driver's Story, The, Wyoming Kit, .... 391 






-4 



CONTENTS. 



Snow Storm, The, 

Shakespeare to Ann Hathaway, .... 
St. Catharine Borne by Angels, .... 

That Sweet Story of Old, 

The Two Angels, 

The Children's Hour, 

Told by the Hospital Nurse, 

The Old Oaken Bucket, 

The Life I Long For, 

The Rain Upon the Eoof, 

The Aged Stranger, 

Thanksgiving, 

Thanks 

The Village Choir, 

The Round of Life, 

Thoughts for a Discouraged Farmer, . . 

Tommy's Prayer, 

Uncle Ned's Defence, . • 

Unfinished Still, 

Unrest (Illustrated) 

Unseen Greeting, The, 

Village Blacksmith, The, 

We Are Not Always Glad When We Smile, 
Why He Wouldn't SeU the Farm, . . . 

Whispering Bill, 

When Sam'wel Led the Singing, . . . 
Write Them a Letter To-Night, . . . 
Why Don't He Stop Writing? .... 

Western Australia, 

What is Good, 

You Put No Flowers on My Papa's Grave, 
Your House, 



Ralph Waldo Emerson, 



Harriet Beecher Stowe, . . 

Mrs. Jemima Luke, , . . 

Henry W. Longfellow, . . 

Henry W. Longfellow, . . 

McBeaih (in Herald), . . 

Samuel Woodworth, . . . 

John G. Whittier, . . . 

Coats Kinney, . . . . 

Bret Harte, . . . . . 
Mrs. Calvin Brice, . . 
Walt Whitman (in World), 
Andres Journal, . . . 
Alexander Lamonf, . . 
James Whitcomb Riley, 




Ella Higginson, . . . 
Henry W. Longfellow, . 
Henry W. Longfellow, . 
James Whitcomb Riley, 
A. Alphonse Dayton, 
W. Irving BaeheUer, 
Boston Globe, . . . . 
Olyeite Ellis, . . . . 
Oliver Wendell Holmes, 
James Boyle O'Reilly, . 
James Boyle O'Reilly, . 
C. E. L. Holmes, . . 
N. P. WUlis, . . . 



123 

266 

263 

242 

251 

261 

81 

87 

90 

92 

96 

141 

144 

346 

351 

366 

378 

209 

129 

131 

26 

254 

146 

106 

161 

309 

355 

60 

75 

74 

324 

126 






ILLUSTRATIONS 





Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and Portland Home, 13 '^ 
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's Cambridge Home, . 19 

James Kussell Lowell, 23 

James Russell Lowell's Home, " Elmwood," . . 271-' 

William Cullen Bryant, 29 

William Cullen Bryant's Home, " Cedarmere," . 33^ 
William Cullen Bryant's Favorite Seat, . . 37 ►^ 

John G. Whittier, .39'' 

John G. Whittier's Birthplace, . , . . 43 1' 
John G. Whittier's Present Home, . . . . ^1 y 

Bayard Taylor, 49'' 

Bayard Taylor's Home, " Cedarcroft," . . . 53'^ 

Oliver Wendell Holmes, 57 - 

Oliver Wendell Holmes' Birthplace, . . .61' 
Oliver Wendell Holmes' Present Home, . . 65'' 

John Boyle O'Reilly, 67"' 

John Boyle O'Reilly's Study, . . . . 71 --^ 

Western Australia, 75'- 

A Broken Fan, 93 "^ 

An August Rune, ....... 115 »^ 

Unrest, 127 

All Hallow E'en, 149- 

PiED Piper of Hamelin, . . . . . . 187 - 

Lincoln and Tad. 197 

Paul Revere's Ride, 203 

America, . . . 275 

S. T.Smith, 277 

Mrs. Rebecca Wright Bonsal, 281 

Sheridan's Ride, ....... 285 

Miss Rebecca Wright's Home, . . . c . 289 
Sheridan's Letter 293 






this, books can do; — nor this alone; they give 
new views to life, and teach us how to live; 
they soothe the grieved, the stubborn they chastise, 
fools they admonish, and confirm the wise: 
their aid they yield to all: they never shun 
the man of sorrow, nor the wretch undone: 
unlike the hard, the selfish, and the proud, 
they fly not sullen from the suppliant crowd; 
nor tell to various people various things, 
but show to subjects what they show to kings. 

— George Crabbe. 






HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW AND PORTLAND HOME 





THE HOMES OF OUR FAVORITES. 



LONGFELLOW. 

With Longfellow can be associated with interest three 
homes. Two in Portland, Me., his birth-place and his 
second home. Of the fii"st httle can be said in connection 
with his life, more than its being his birth-place, as so 
short a period of it was spent there. It is a four-story 
frame of square pattern, and at a glance you see it was 
built more for room than elegance. To-day it is fulfilling 
the object for which it was intended, as it is now used as 
a tenement house and accommodates several families. 
Quite an amusing incident is told of an answer given one 
of the Portland teachers when she asked a class where 
Mr. Longfellow was born. A bright little fellow's hand 
went up and his answer was " In Patsy Milligan's bed- 
room." While the boy was correct, as the said Mr. MiUi- 
gan was at the time occupying part of the house and had 
as his bedroom the one in which Mr. Longfellow was born, 
the statement seemed so laughable that it soon became a 
standing story told to each visitor. 

It gives us pleasure to present to our readers the cut 
we have of his Portland home. In this house were spent 
many of the days of his youth, and in it were written some 
of his choicest productions. To the right as you face the 
house, the second-story front room is the one in which 
the " Rainy Day " was written. That alone makes it 






THE HOMES OF OUB FAVOBITES. 




worth quite a pilgrimage to see, and if ever you should 
be near Portland, Me,, by all means make Ms birth-place 
and home a visit, and you will be more than repaid. 

The world of to-day and for all time to come will al- 
most universally associate Mr. Longfellow with his last 
home — ^the one at Cambridge, Mass. Our cut gives you 
a side view of the house, which shows it to better advan- 
tage than in any other position. Here he spent about 
forty years of his life and gathered about him those treas- 
ures and gifts which make his home such an interesting 
place to visit. 

" Craigie House," the home of Henry W. Longfellow, 
stands on Brattle Street, Cambridge, Mass., and has a his- 
tory dated far back of the time it came into the hands of 
our poet. Built about the middle of the eighteenth cent- 
ury, it passed from owner to owner, each of whom was 
widely noted in his day and way, and has continually 
been a house of public notice. Possibly more exciting 
events occurred within its walls while in the possession 
of its former owners, but the sweetest memories cluster 
around it since 1843, the time Mr. Longfellow bought it. 
For he made it what it had never been in all its chang- 
ing fortunes — a home. The first owner was Colonel John 
Vassol, a gentleman of some distinction, and it remained 
in his possession until after the Eevolutionary War, For 
a time Greneral Washington made the house his headquar- 
ters, and we read in verse : 

"Once, ah, once within these walls 
One whom memory oft recalls, 
The father of his country dwelt." 

Mrs. Washington held a number of formal receptions 
there, and " Lady Washington's Drawing-room " has ever 
since retained the prominence she gave it ; and you see it 
to-day with its white satin furniture figured with vines 
and clusters of flowers. The carpet to match seems a 







LONGFELLOW. 



perfect bed of flowers, and a large mirror from floor to 
ceiling gives a gi-and effect, and you see in reflection the 
beautiful harmony of this state apartment, with its sofas, 
arm-chairs, and elegant pictures; the most noted and 
attractive of which is " The G-randchildren of Sir William 
Pepprell," by Copley. 

From Colonel Vassol the house passed into the hands of 
Thomas Tracy, who gave it the name of Vassol Hall. 
Mr. Tracy was a man given to the pursuits of pleasure, to 
the detriment of all business prosperity, and great are the 
tales that are handed down of the banquets and baUs 
held there during his time. The gay festivities ran free, 
and daily hundreds of guests came to enjoy the hospitality 
of the genial host until bankruptcy overtook him. Then 
friends were few, and he was compelled to give up his 
luxurious hfe and seek a home less expensive. For a 
time the place seems lost to the pubhc eye. When next 
we hear of it, it was owned by Andrew Craigie. The 
expense of maintaining the 200 acres, used as they were 
mostly for pleasure, was too much for his means, and he 
was forced to seU all but eight acres of the original 200. 
After his death, his wife took lodgers from Harvard 
College, and as one of her "roomers" Longfellow first 
dwelt in the house. Everett, Worcester, and many others, 
since nationally known, paid room-rent to the dignified 
Mrs. Craigie. All these associations known to the visitor 
give the place an air of awe, but no part of the history 
seems to take precedence over the time it was the home 
of Mr. Longfellow. All else seems to be mostly forgotten 
in wishing to know its history as the home of America's 
sweetest poet. Originally it was a brick house, but in 
later years it was incased in wood, which is painted in 
buff. The doors, the balustrade on the roof, and the four 
pilasters are all of white, which blends into a beautiful 
relief. It stands upon a quaintly terraced lawn in the 
shade of the wide-spreading elms, and a broad veranda 






THE HOMES OF OUB FAVORITES. 





runs on each side, and upon the door is the old traditional 
brass knocker. Entering the wainscoted hall with its 
broad stairway and oddly twisted baluster, the first door 
on the right opens into a most interesting room, the 
poet's study. This is indeed a storehouse of rare treasure ; 
the walls on three sides covered with old-fashioned paper, 
while the fourth is wholly wainscoted. An excellent 
view is had from one of the windows, of the beautiful 
Charles River. Here, there, and everywhere are treasures 
and presents, many with an interesting history — one of 
which is a book-case containing original manuscripts of 
his work, handsomely and appropriately bound. It is 
one of the most interesting objects to us in the whole 
house, and we can but hnger a moment in looking it over. 
We gaze with admiring wonder upon the days, weeks, and 
months of labor they represent. An inkstand of the 
poet, Crabbe, which was once owned by Tom Moore; 
another, once the property of Coleridge. These keep 
company with Mr. Longfellow's own and the last he used, 
beside which are his quiUs. These we find on the centre 
table with many books, photographs, and letters, arranged 
to our poet's own taste in a " sweet disorder." A chair 
made from a part of the chestnut tree under which the 
" Village Smithy " stood, presented to him on his seventy- 
second birth-day by the children of Cambridge, stands 
near a writing desk. 

Several other book-cases filled with handsome and 
choice volumes are also here. In one are the works of 
Chatterton, said to be the first fine book the poet bought, 
and represent the efforts of one year's verse-writing while 
in Bowdoin College. These, with many other attractions 
and pictures and tastefully arranged curtains, give the 
room a home-like as well as attractive appearance. While 
there are enough books in every room to dominate each a 
hbrary in the average home, we visit the library proper, 
and find it one of the most beautiful rooms of the house. 





LONGFELLOW'S HOME 

WEST SIDE OF THE CRAIGIE HOUSE, CAMBRIDGE 





LONGFELLOW. 



with a spacious and home-like elegance. Three sides are 
lined with books containing complete sets of all the great 
authors in different languages. With Emerson, Long- 
fellow could say, "I visit occasionally "the Cambridge 
Library, and I seldom go there without renewing the con- 
viction that the best of it all is already within the four 
walls of my study at home." 

We find in the dining-room that same pleasant home- 
like air, but savoring in its furnishing of that taste dis- 
played all through the house, a love for the antique and 
memorial. The quaint old china will at once attract your 
eye, and among the pictures here you see Buchanan Read's 
painting of '^ Longfellow's Daughters." A fuU description 
of this picture and its origin is told in the history of poems 
on another page. The up-stairs rooms are sacred to the 
memories of the past. Here life and death brought happi- 
ness and sorrow to the heart of our poet, yet of interest 
are they to the visitor. In one was written those verses 
that more than any one production carried Longfellow's 
name around the globe, "A Psalm of Life." One has 
been fitted up by Mr. Longfellow's son in regular Japanese 
style, and is very unique and attractive. 

In your wanderings through the house you notice in- 
numerable treasures of much interest to us all. Most of 
them were presents to Mr. Longfellow by some admiring 
friend. Among them you will see a cane made from a 
spar of the ship on which the " Star-Spangled Banner " 
was written. Another from Arcadia, the home of Evan- 
gehne ; and a piece of Dante's coffin you find in a cabinet 
of curiosities. Before leaving we take one glance at the 
drawing-room, fitted and built in a most pleasing Colonial 
style; with its cheerful fire-place, deep-set windows, and 
rich furniture. As you leave and pass down the walk to 
the street and bring by one hurried glance all before you, 
and remember the man yourseK as he was, you not only 
feel that he was the ideal poet, but the ideal father, hus- 




k 





THE HOMES OF OUR FAVORITES. 




band, and host. He never wearied in receiving daily pro- 
cessions of his admirers. Pilgrims of every degree and 
from every clime came to pay him homage. Daily with 
infinite urbanity he gave attention to many letters from 
admirers who could not call in person. To this some of 
his near friends remonstrated at the encroachment upon 
his time. In good humor he answered, " If I do not speak 
kindly to them, there is not a man in the world who 
would." On the day he was taken ill, just six days before 
his death, three school-boys came from Boston on their 
Saturday holiday to ask his autograph. With a most 
cordial welcome he showed them a hundred interesting 
things in his home, then wrote his name for them, and for 
the last time. He was indeed a 



" Type of the wise, who soar but never roam, 
True to the kindred points of Heaven and home." 






JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 






LOWELL. 

A HALO of poetic tastes abounds in the staid old town 
of Cambridge, Mass. There a lover of Nature can find fit- 
ting places for a home. James Russell Lowell, deeply 
in love with. Nature as he was, found his home in Elm- 
wood as fair a spot for his meditations as heart could 
wish. Here no skill of the florist's handicraft is seen, but 
unmolested Nature has had full sway, and well has she 
done her work. Longfellow's beautiful surroundings, the 
well-kept lawn, perfectly trimmed hedge and profusion of 
flowers do not surpass the rural and rustic beauty of Elm- 
wood. It stands about half a mile west of Harvard 
Square, on the base line of a triangle, the apex of which 
almost reaches to the gate of Mount Auburn Cemetery. 
From the road only the gables and chimneys can be seen, 
over the shrubbery and through the trees, so closely 
hemmed in is the stately old mansion. An abundance of 
sturdy native and Enghsh elms (from which it takes its 
name) abound over the entire grounds, and so affection- 
ately do they caress the house on every side as to greatly 
shelter it from the intrusion of sun and storm. 

The house is a frame, of three stories, of the old Eevo- 
lutionary pattern, built just before the breaking out of 
the struggle for freedom with the mother country, and 
for a Mr. OHver, the last loyal Lieutenant-Grovernor of the 
Province of Massachusetts. When war was fairly opened 
Mr. Oliver retmrned to England, and the house became 
the property of Elbridge G-erry, who was one of the sign- 
ers of the Declaration of Independence, and later Governor 
of Massachusetts and Vice-President of the United States. 
From Governor Gerry's estate, Rev. Charles Lowell, father 
of James Russell, bought the place, and here, on the 22d 
of February, 1819, was born the poet. By Rev. Lowell 



-^^** 





THE HOMES OF OUB FAVORITES. 



^d^ 





was most of the elms planted, and by him was it giren its 
name. Although over a century old, it stands to-day, 
with no sign of decay. It was erected by honest and 
masterly hands. The body of the house is painted buff, 
the balustrade and eaves are white, the shutters are dark 
green. So unhke the home of Mr. Longfellow, we find it 
closed, and only a peep through the shutters and the gos- 
sip of the town teUs us what it is inside. The house has 
been for some time closed ; in fact, ever since Mr. Lowell 
was called to the mission of a foreign court; for now 
while in this country he makes his home and passes most 
of his time with his married daughter on " Deer Forest 
Farm," near Southboro, Mass. In beautiful words Long- 
fellow describes the solitude of the place. 

' ' Silent are all the sounds of day : 

Nothing I hear but the chirp of the crickets, 
And the cry of the herons winging their way 
O'er the poet's house in the Elmwood thickets. 

" Sing to him, say to him, here at his gate. 

Where the boughs of the stately elms are meeting. 
Some one hath lingered to meditate 
And send him unseen this friendly greeting. " 

If we could visit the interior, we would again see the 
contrast between the two poets' homes on Brattle Street, 
in Cambridge — for Mr. Longfellow and Mr. Lowell Hved 
on the same street — ^we would find a Hbrary weU filled, 
and a study, the former on the first floor, the latter in the 
third story, up among the branches of the trees, where 
best he could see and enjoy Nature while at his work — ^we 
would miss the many mementoes that add such a charm 
to Mr. Longfellow's home, for Mr. Lowell has spent much 
of his time of late years abroad, and has added httle to the 
attractiveness of Elmwood. He seems much in love with 
living in England, and is quoted as saying : " I have more 
personal friends in England now than I have in this 
country." 



:^ 



k 




J 




ELMWOOD,' CAMBRIDGE, MASS 

HOME OF JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL 




WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 






BRYANT. 

The home of William CTiUen Bryant, that we associate 
him with since his death, is " Cedarmere," at Roslyn, L. 
I., a smaU village of less than 1,000 people, in Queens 
County, N. Y., on the Sound, about twenty -five miles 
from New York City, which is most accessibly made by a 
steamer that daily plies to the great metropohs and re- 
turn. The birth-place and early home of Mr. Bryant was 
in Cummington, Mass., a village of about the same size 
as Eoslyn. His first home was an unpretentious one, 
with no marked difference from any other of the houses 
of the town, and Mr. Bryant left it too early in his life 
to give it much interest as his home, while his poetic 
genius was given to and appreciated by the public. While 
he had produced a number of his masterpieces prior to 
1825, at that time dated the beginning of his literary ca- 
reer proper. Previous to that time law had been his am- 
bition, and much time had he given to it. The first thu-ty- 
two years of his life was spent in western Massachusetts, 
and during that time his home was in a number of differ- 
ent places. Leaving Cummington at sixteen, he entered 
WiUiams College, in 1810, at Williamstown, Mass. From 
college he took up study and practice of law at Plainfield, 
Mass., and of his home there we have no account. In a 
short time he left Plainfield, and made his home in Great 
Barrington for ten years. We do not find any particular 
individuaUty given his home there; in fact, he may have 
lived in a dozen houses of the town, for all we can learn. 
But of the general surroundings of the country much can 
be said in praise ; and Great Barrington is, indeed, a most 
charming spot for the home of a poet. Monument Moun- 





t 




THE HOMES OF OUR FAVORITES. 

tain looks down from the north. The story of the Indian 
girl's mad leap from its summit is the subject of one of 
his finest poems. The placid Housatonic Eiver flows near 
by and adds charm to the place, and the fine country 
drives, with an abundance of beautiful elms, makes it a 
fit paradise for dreamy and poetic thought. AU these no 
doubt aided the development of that talent which in later 
years fired his soul to those noble productions of his life. 

In 1825 law was abandoned, and he comes to New York 
City and enters the field for which he was only suited. 
In beginning his career solely in a literary capacity, he 
took up his residence -at No. 24 "West Sixteenth Street. 
Any one who is familiar with New York City knows that 
there is little to distinguish one house from another. 
Whole blocks will be of the same architectural design, 
with so similar surroundings and entrances as to make no 
noticeable individuality one from the other. We must go 
to the interior to see the differences one house is from its 
companions. 

In Mr. Bryant's we find just what one would expect in 
the home of a poet of his sterling qualities — ^books in- 
numerable, of the choicest selection that a poet would 
most naturally gather about him, aU handsomely bound 
and tastefully arranged. Beautiful paintings adorn the 
waUs, and the furniture plain but rich, showing good taste 
and the popular styles of the day. It was as Mr. Bryant 
intended it should be, a home, with home comforts and a 
home air — handsome rather than splendid. This was his 
winter home, presided over after the death of his wife by 
his daughter Julia, and in it he found many hours of 
pleasure, and here was done the most work of his Homeric 
translation. But at his summer home in " Cedarmere " 
seems the most appropriate place for our beloved and 
gifted idol. Were you to make it a visit and not know its 
history, you, of an imaginative turn of mind, would in- 
stinctively say, " What a grand old place, just the spot for 






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BETANT. 

a poet's retreat, from the busy whirl of the outer world, 
where he can give free rein to his choicest thoughts." In- 
deed it is the old-fashioned house, buried in a labyrinth 
of foliage, gives it the ideal charm of the most soaring 
flights of an intelligent imagination. Having seen the 
bloom and decay of many summers. Nature, guided by 
the skilled hand of the landscape gardener, has truly done 
her work well and made " Cedarmere " the idol of our 
poet's eye. A lover and studier and writer of Nature as 
he was, the pleasant days he spent there are proverbial of 
the love he had for the place. One of his frequent haunts 
is shown in the engraving of " Mr. Bryant's favorite seat 
of Cedarmere." Here in his rustic chair, close by the run- 
ning brook, sheltered from the rays of the sun by the 
wide-spreading branches that seem to droop affectionately 
over him, many happy, happy hours were spent. Under 
such circumstances, do we wonder that poetic inspiration 
of the highest type was at his command! We who love 
him are glad to know that under these circumstances that 
he so much loved, and that gave him such beneficial rest, 
he was permitted more than thirty years to live, and when 

" His summons came to join 
The innumerable caravan that moves 
To that mysterious realm, 
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch 
About him and lies down to pleasant dreams," 

Nature folded her poet in her own bosom, and the grass 
and the leaves, his near neighbors in life, are still the 
same as he sleeps his long and peaceful rest in the little 
Rosyln grave-yard. 







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i 




JOHN G. WHITTIER 





WHITTIER. 

John Geeenleaf Whittier, like Longfellow, is associ- 
ated with three homes — his birth-place, near Haverhill, 
Mass.; his home at Amesbury, which is the one repre- 
sented in our cut ; and his last home at " Oak Knoll," near 
Danvers, Mass., where, in company with his cousins, he 
now spends most of his time. 

Descended from an old Quaker family in the early days 
of the present century, we can well imagine the rude sim- 
plicity of his birth-place. Averse to all ostentation as the 
Quakers are to-day, we must know that eighty years ago, 
before the march of improvement had made such progress, 
their homes were the type of simphcity, often seasoned 
with too much rudeness for personal comfort. Whittier, 
in describing his first home, says : 

" Within our beds awhile we heard 
The wind that round the gables roared, 
With now and then a ruder shock, 
Which made our very bedsteads rock. 
We heard the loosened clapboards tost, 
The brad nails snapping in the frost, 
And on us through the unplastered wall, 
Felt the light-sifted snow-flakes fall. 
But sleep stole on as sleep will do, 
When hearts are light and life is new." 

This from his poem " Snow-Bound " gives a faint idea 
of the home. In that poem Mr. Whittier describes in 
beautiful language his birth-place. Its great age has 
brought it somewhat into decay in recent years, yet many 
of the old familiar landmarks remain to give the visitor 
who calls pleasant remembrances of our Quaker poet's 






THE HOMES OF OUR FAVORITES. 





first home. Leaving home after a fair education had been 
gained, he spent some years in teaching and some on the 
editorial staff of two or three papers ; he was also sent 
once to the Legislature, but his love for quiet home-life 
surpassed the pleasures of pubhc applause, and the bus- 
tling hfe of the outer world was forsaken for a quiet home 
with his mother, sister, and aunt. They moved to the 
simple, exquisite and neat little house in Amesbury, Mass. 
Here was spent the best days of his life, and here was 
written most of those moral, political, and pastoral poems 
that have made Mr. Whittier known to every family as 
far as the English language is spoken. Always taking 
for his theme a subject elevating, he brought out with 
each production something for good. Then how dear the 
American people must hold the spot where these results 
of his labor were accomplished and the great deeds of his 
life given to the world in verse ! 

The house, plain and neat, as our engraving shows, is 
situated in the quiet part of the outskirts of the town, 
pleasantly surrounded by shrubs and trees, which all poets 
love to have about them. Near it stands a Quaker meet- 
ing-house, where Mr. Whittier loved to attend worship. 
The road leading from town winds by his house, on past 
the church, close by shady trees, and out into the beauti- 
ful and boundless country. In the rear roUs the pictur- 
esque Merrimac through woody hills away to the ocean. 
All combined form indeed a pretty picture and a lovely 
spot to caU home. The house is painted a light cream, 
handsome but not gaudy, in perfect keeping with the 
every-day hfe of its owner. We enter from the left-hand 
porch into the study — the room of rooms in all authors' 
homes. We find it as we expect, and as is all the rest of 
the house, simply plain and home-like. There is also an 
inside entrance to the study, and two windows in the rear 
from which we can look out and see a well-kept garden, 
with vines and fruit trees, and here and there some beauti- 



1 



t 





WHITTIER'S BIRTHPLACE, NEAR HAVERHILL, MASS. 





WHITTIEB. 

ful flowers. We do not find as many books here as we 
might expect, but upon examination you see that they 
are the very choicest. You do not criticise the quantity 
when you become acquainted with the quahty. Some 
pretty pictures adorn the walls — some of them views 
along the Merrimac, where so many, many historical and 
picturesque scenes abound. They are still more interest- 
ing to us, as Mr. Whittier has made the Merrimac his 
river of song. One picture attracts our special attention, 
" Snow-Bound," his birth-place. For the general interior 
nothing additional of special mention can be said. It is 
a cozy home, and many visitors can testify to the big, 
warm, hospitable heart of the host. In years past it was 
a favorite stopping-place for Quaker preachers, but in 
later years kind consideration to the declining years and 
strength of Mr, Whittier has forbade their accepting so 
hberally his courtesies. The silver crown of more than 
fourscore years now (1891) rests upon his head, and he has 
given up writing and entertaining. While the old home 
is still open, you will find Mr. Whittier the gi'eater part of 
his time at " Oak KnoU." Soon his journey on earth 
must end. We know that the reward for the most faith- 
ful is awaiting him, and that the Master he has served so 
faithfully waits just a little before calling him to that 
home of everlasting joy, one not made by hands. 



A 





WHITTIER'S PRESENT HOME 




BAYARD TAYLOR 





BAYARD TAYLOR. 



The possession of a home to a man of fine feelings and 
attainments stands paramount to all earthly desires. To a 
success in life, the development of his capabilities, he 
gives his soul, time, and strength, but with it all there is 
that strong undercurrent of desire that he may success- 
fully accomplish this and succeed in that, that fortune 
may smile upon him with a reward of one spot he can call 
his own : there to enjoy peace, rest, and the love of his 
dear ones. How forcibly we must believe this when we 
read those sweet plaintive strains of him who prized 
Home so highly, yet never had one in which to rest his 
head. The words of John Howard Payne : 

" 'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, 
Be it ever so humble there's no place like home ; 
A charm from the sky seems to hallow us there, 
Which seek through the world is not met with elsewhere," 

found a responsive chord in the heart of Bayard Taylor. 
Through all the struggles of his early life his eyes had 
been fixed on a piece of ground just opposite the Taylor 
homestead. It had been his day-dream to possess it, and 
many were the air-castles he built upon it. At last the 
dream became a reahty, and the mansion we give in our 
cut of " Cedar Croft " shows the home of Bayard Taylor, 
the reward of sixteen years of diligent labor. Beginning 
life a poor boy, it was that long before he was able to buy 
the ground and complete the house, but when it was done 
he could look on it, as he did the other achievements of 
his life, with pride and contentment. As we have said, it 
stands opposite his birth-place, which is at Kennett 




"^^ 






THE HOMES OF OUB FAVORITES. 

Square, Chester County, Pa. For a history of his family 
and his life we refer you to the same given on other pages. 
It is of his home that we wish this article to speak. The 
ground is. bordered with tall trees, enclosing a beautiful 
undulating plot. A piece of ground thus enclosed is often 
termed in England a croft ; and as many of the trees were 
cedar, Mr. Taylor christened his home " Cedar Croft." As 
our illustration shows, it is a large, comfortable country 
house. The site is on the highest elevation at the upper 
end of the grounds, which slope away in natural terraces 
to a beautiful level bordering on the road. The observa- 
tory, or look-out, enables one to have a magnificent view 
of the surrounding country, and looking down upon the 
little village of Kennett Square, the scene is indeed charm- 
ing. We not only find the house commodious, but with 
all the improvements that reason could wish to make it 
pleasant and entertaining. The grounds have all the at- 
tractiveness of a modern and elegant country-seat. By 
symmetrical walks you pass tastefully laid out flower- 
beds, and reach the orchard and grapery. A little farther 
on the pond at the end of the grounds ; coming on down 
to the roadside, you can follow in the shade of a belt of 
trees up to the drive which takes you to the base of the 
observatory. Take it all in all, the spot seems intended 
by Nature for a poet's home, and a poet of more than na- 
tional renown made it one of the fiercest struggles of his 
life to accept the compliment. The pillars of the piazza 
are covered with clinging vines, and in season make it 
most beautiful and attractive. Inside we find all the 
proper arrangements for the comforts of home. The h- 
brary, Mr. Taylor's favorite resort, where much of his lit- 
erary work was done, is all that a library implies. The 
reception-room, dining-room, and up-stairs rooms are in 
perfect keeping with what a rational imagination would 
suggest. When Mr. Taylor had completed the house, true 
to the enjoyable and old-fashioned country practice, he in- 







BATABD TATLOB. 

augurated life in his new home by a "house-warming," 
unique in its manner, yet most pleasing to his guests. He 
with a friend conceived the idea of having a parlor enter- 
tainment ; the play to consist of one of their own produc- 
tion. A few days were spent in composing and fitting 
parts to the actors; Mr. Taylor and his friend taking 
prominent characters. After due rehearsals, the announce- 
ment was made to the friends and neighbors, and a " full 
house " paid " compliment " to the kind efforts of their en- 
tertaining neighbor. The production of " Love in a Ho- 
tel," as played for the first and last time in Bayard Tay- 
lor's library, was a pronounced success. 






OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 





OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 




VmGiNiA has for many years been termed " the mother 
of Presidents." Rightly too, for of the first twelve Presi- 
dents of the United States she furnished seven. With 
more propriety can Massachusetts be called the mother of 
American poets. Lowell, Whittier, Bryant, and Oliver 
Wendell Holmes, four of the brightest stars in our literary 
firmament of the nineteenth century, first saw the light of 
day in the " Old Bay State." Several other poets of less 
popularity, but excellent writers, honor the State by their 
birth. Richard Henry Dana, born at Cambridge, Novem- 
ber 15th, 1787, with many was a leading favorite. If you 
wish to make his acquaintance, we suggest " The Little 
Beach Bird " and another of his fine productions, " The 
Buccaneer.". 

Richard Henry Stoddard, born at Hingham more than 
250 years ago, was a poet of renown in his time. Many 
others that we do not take time in this article to enumer- 
ate are natives of Massachusetts, and a great many have 
made it their home by adoption. So that you find your- 
self in a literary habitation as you wander in the shades 
of Cambridge. Among the poets' homes there you see 
that of Ohver Wendell Holmes. It stands on historic 
gTOund, and not alone that it is the birth-place of one of 
America's sweetest singers and most patriotic citizens, but 
incidents of centuries old cluster around the place and 
awaken our patriotism and interest. Across a small com- 
mon, and just opposite the house shown in our cut, which 
was once the home of Mr. Hastings, and head-quarters of 
Greneral Ward, stands a historic tree, the " Washington 



^ 





THE HOMES OF OUR FAVORITES. 




Elm." Under this tree George WasMngton first drew Ms 
sword as Commander-in-cMef of the army that made the 
United States a free and independent country. Of the in- 
cident, Hohnes in 1875 writes in verse : 

"Just on this very blessed spot, 

The summer leaves below, 
Before his home-spun ranks arrayed 
In green New England's elm-bough shade, 
The great Virginian drew the blade, 

King George full soon should know." 

Visitors to that historic spot read from the inscription 
on the granite monument how the " Father of his Coun- 
try " did honor to the tree and gave it an everlasting and 
interesting history. Through all the changing fortunes 
of time it will be known in pleasing and patriotic connec- 
tion with President Washington. Of the memorial inci- 
dents connected with "Hastings House" prior to 1807, we 
find but little interest, while commencing with that date, 
the time Eev. Abiel Holmes made it his home, begins an 
era in the history of the old house afire with interest to 
aU hterary-appreciating Americans. Two years later, on 
the 29th of August, 1809, was born our beloved, our 
patriotic, useful, and honored poet and citizen, 0. W. 
Holmes. 

His birth-place was his home for thirty years. During 
that time he attended common schools, and graduated from 
Harvard at the age of twenty, and later received the de- 
gree of Dr. of Medicine from that institution. As one of 
the class of 1829 we already know him, and read with in- 
terest the poems he has written for their annual reunions. 
Of this date he jocosely speaks of himself in the follow- 
ing lines : 

It's awful to think of — how, year after year, 
With his piece in his pocket he waits for you here ; 
No matter who's missing, there always is one 
To lug out his manuscript, sure as a gun. 









BIRTHPLACE OF OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES 






OLIVEB WENDELL HOLMES. 

' "Why won't he stop writing ? ' Humanity cries : 
The answer is, briefly, ' He can't if he tries ; 
He has played with his foolish old feather so long. 
That the goose-quill, in spite of him, cackles in song.' " 

Dr. Holmes is a man of high sentimentality, and in a 
most appreciative manner he speaks of the home of his 
youth. He loved the old house, which he describes as 
" haunted " by sweet recollections. The library and study, 
where so many hours he spent in deepest thought, have 
for him remembrances never to be forgotten. The five 
acres of ground, with its lawn, flowers, shrubs, and trees, 
are scenes of too many youthful pranks to ever lose a 
charm for him. 

What might be termed his second home was at his great- 
gi'andfather's old estate near Pittsfield, Mass., where he 
spent the summer of seven years. That same gentle ap- 
preciative nature beams forth again in his praise of the 
stay at this home, and he likens the seven summers unto 
" the seven golden candle-sticks " in the beautiful vision 
of the holy dreamer. His third and present home is an ele- 
gant one situated on . Beacon Street, Boston. From his 
library window he can look across the Charles River, and 
have a commanding view of Cambridge, Harvard College, 
and the home of his youth. We feel that the sight to him 
has often been inspiring, and has called forth some of his 
cLoicest thoughts. Sentimentally retrospective, it seems 
fit that that turn in his mind should awake into reality 
some of his imaginations that have thriUed the land he 
loved so well. As we would suppose, a man of Dr. Holmes's 
Uterary attainments would have quite a collection of books. 
The book-cases in his library cover every available space, 
and a possessor of his collection would almost feel that it 
was indeed a complete one. Other educational emblems 
you will find here. A microscope is on the centre-table 
ready for use, and to make examination perfectly he has 
two circular windows so arranged as to throw the light 



-4 






TEE HOMES OF OUB FAVOBITES. 

direct upon the instrument. Mucli of his time outside of 
that given to his class recitations (we must here remem- 
ber that Dr. Holmes occupies the chair of Anatomy and 
Physiology at Harvard College) is spent in the hbrary, and 
he has everything made convenient for his work. His 
taste for the beautiful is shown in some fine paintings that 
adorn the walls and the general home-like and cheerful 
appearance of the entire house. It is a beautiful home, 
and Mr. Holmes is Just the one to enjoy it. That he does 
we know, for his big warm heart, his daily smile, and the 
humor and sentiment of his writings tell us so. With a 
true poetic heart Mr. Holmes beheves that 

" Home's not merely four square walls, 

Though with pictures hung and gilded : 
Home is where affection calls, 

Filled with shrines the heart hath builded 1 
Home ! go watch the faithful dove, 

Sailing 'neath the heaven above us ; 
Home is where there's one to love ! 

Home is where there's one to love us ! 

" Home's not merely roof and room, 

It needs something to endear it ; 
Home is where the heart can bloom. 

Where there's some kind lip to cheer it ! 
What is home with none to meet, 

Fone to welcome, none to greet us ? 
Home is sweet, — and only sweet — 

When there's one we love to meet us ! " 






THE PRESENT HOME OF OLIVER AVENDELL HOLMES 

LIBRARY 
BEACON STREET, "BACK BAY," BOSTON 




JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY 





t 



JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 

" Strong sense, deep feeling, passion strong, 
A hate of tyrant and of knave, 
A love of right, a scorn of wrong. 
Of coward and of slave. 

" A kind, true heart, a spirit high. 

That could not fear and would not bow, 
Were written in his manly eye 
And on his manly brow. " 

"Well liatli the poet, in Ms innocent musing on some 
loved ideal, described the hero of our sketch. In giving 
the description of the homes of John Boyle O'Reilly, we 
win vary some from the course with which we have han- 
dled the preceding chapters on this subject, and to give in 
a clearer and more appreciative manner the history of his 
homes, we will at the same time weave in briefly his life. 
His birth-place was at a Government institution in the 
county of Meath, Ireland, known in history as Castle 
Dowth, and was at the time governed by his father, Wm. 
DaAdd O'EeiUy, who had superintendency of the institu- 
tion for about thirty years. 

John Boyle was born there in the year 1844, and there, 
under the instruction of his father and mother, he received 
his early education, and from their love of Ireland was 
planted in his heart that spark of patriotism which gradu- 
ally flamed his whole soul in an earnest devotion to the 
cause of his oppressed and beloved country. Having 
learned type-setting and mastered short-hand early in hf e, 
he went to England and did printers' and reportorial work 
on various papers. In 1863 he became a member of the 
Fenian Brotherhood, and in the same year joined the 







THE HOMES OF OUR FAVORITES. 



Tenth Prince of Wales Huzzars, at that time one of the 
pride cavahy regiments of the EngUsh army. He was 
stationed at Dublin, and in his company were many of the 
Emerald Isle's noble sons. O'Eeilly became a member of 
the regiment not so much to fight for England as to con- 
spire for Ireland. His work and ability as a soldier soon 
brought him promotion from the ranks to Sergeant, and 
his devotion and patriotism for Ireland's cause were pur- 
sued with such zeal that his efforts were soon discovered. 
He was tried for high treason, and, with a number of his 
comrades, was found guilty and sentenced to be shot. 
This extreme penalty was commuted to imprisonment for 
life, and before that was put into execution it was further 
reduced to twenty years at penal servitude. At that time 
aU Ireland was in a state of terror, and arrests by the score 
were daily made. AU the prisons were soon full, and our 
hero, with some 350 other criminals, was sent in 1867 to 
West Australia. The beautiful and strange country soon 
had a fascination for him, and under other circumstances 
he might have been more contented, possibly enjoyed a 
life there. He expressed his opinion of the country as "A 
land blessed by God and blighted by man." His noble 
spirit of manhood soon began to assert itself again, and 
when less than a year of prison life had passed, he had per- 
fected plans to escape. His work in Australia was help- 
ing to make public roads, which gave him the opportunity 
to make acquaintances with the native Australians. 
Among them was a beautiful and young Maori girl who 
had fallen in love with him. To her he communicated his 
intentions, and she, at the risk of her own life, and know- 
ing that whether he escaped or not she would never see 
him again, secured and hid for him an old boat, which he 
succeeded in reaching, and in it put to open sea. " For- 
tune will favor the brave," and he was picked up, first by 
a vessel bound for Calcutta, but stopped at Java for fear 
of recapture on British soil. By many hardships and ex- 







JOHN BOYLE O'BEILLY. 



citing adventures, he was finally landed at Philadelphia, 
Pennsylvania, from Java by the American whaler " Ga- 
zelle," from which he was transferred to the " Sapphire," 
of Boston, which took him to Liverpool, From there he 
escaped to Philadelphia on the " Bombay,-" of Bath, Maine, 
and landed in the city of " Brotherly Love " on November 
23d, 1869, friendless and penniless, but a free man — free 
with that freedom whose magic touch kindled the rays of 
his genius, the enthusiasm of his poetry, and the flame of 
his eloquence. What happiness must have thriUed his 
every nerve ! The trials and vicissitudes of his young and 
eventful life must have passed like a vision before him. 
The home of his birth, the scene of those sweet and tender 
ties that all hold so dear. His struggle in England — the 
army — ^the plot — the discovery — banishment to Australia, 
and the long but successful struggle for liberty. Here and 
there scattered in the path of the twenty-five years past 
were no doubt an occasionally remembered and cherished 
oasis on the desert of his troubles. Home and mother 
must have filled his heart, and perchance pleasant visions 
of the sweet Maorian maiden away in sunny Austraha oc- 
casionally flittered across his mind. But now he was in 
free and beloved America. Not to comfort and pleasure 
himself, but to give his aid to his oppressed brothers, for 

" Is true Freedom but to break 
Fetters for our own dear sake, 
And with leathern hearts forget 
That we owe mankind a debt ? 



t 



*' Ko ! true freedom is to share 
All the chains our brothers wear, 
And with heart and hand to be 
Earnest to make others free." 



His life in the new world was pursued with that same 
vehemence which characterized him throughout all his 
changing fortunes. His ability soon gained him the 






THE HOMES OF OUB FAVORITES. 




prominence in literary circles tliat was due him. Success- 
ful step after step found him ere many years editor and 
one-fourth owner of the Pilot, of Boston ; his sole partner 
being Archbishop Williams, of the same city. He held the 
position for a number of years, and up to the time of his 
death. With his countrymen the paper had much influ- 
ence, and its power was ever exerted in behaK of their be- 
coming good American citizens. 

His writings are rich in thought and highly prized in 
literary circles. Some of his best productions are " Moon- 
dyne," published in 1879 ; " The Three Queens," given to 
the public in 1881 ; " Song Legends and Ballads," " The 
Statues in the Block," and the "Amber Whale." 

As a beautiful souvenir to admirers of Mr. O'Reilly, we 
have at considerable expense and trouble obtained a short 
poem in his own handwriting, which we give at the close 
of this article. One of his poems, short, but so expressive 
of the man, was written in 1886, which we give. 




WHAT IS GOOD? 

' ' What is the real good ? " 
I ask in musing mood. 

"Order," said the law court ; 
" Knowledge," said the school ; 
" Truth," said the wise man ; 
" Pleasure," said the fool ; 
" Love," said the maiden ; 
" Beauty," said the page ; 
" Freedom," said the dreamer ; 
"Home," said the sage ; 
" Fame," said the soldier ; 
"Equity," the seer. 

Spake my heart full sadly : 
"The answer is not here." 

Then within my bosom 

Softly this I heard : 
' ' Each heart holds the secret ; 

' Kindness ' is the word." 




^^V^'feto* ch OtOf,^ Ot*J^ /JOfAl- 





-4 



JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 





Mr. O'Reilly was very popular with his neighbors and 
associates, and many social honors were conferred upon 
him. As success in life came on, he shared his joys with 
a congenial and most charming wife. Loving children 
added beauty and pleasure to the day-dream of our warm- 
hearted and generous-spirited poet. 

It is most fitting that a man of his sentiment, surrounded 
with these earthly blessings, should have a home, and a 
most enjoyable one. His is in the Charleston district of 
Boston, facing Winthrop Park. His study occupies one- 
half the first floor, and is a model place, and shows the 
handiwork in its fui'nishing of a companionable wife. The 
mouldings are finished in crimson, with upholstering and 
curtains to match, which makes it indeed beautiful and 
cozy. A fine collection of books, with paintings, vases, 
and statuettes, adorn the walls. Prominent among the 
pictures is a small one of Dowth Castle. Of the rest of the 
house, we can say it is modern, with every convenience, 
and the merry roguish prattle of their children testify that 
it is a happy home, enjoyed by all. 

In conclusion we will take a peep into his editorial room. 
This is a small one in the fourth story of the Pilot Building. 
The love of an author for " sweet disorder " is hardly an in- 
troduction to the confusion indulged in by Mr. O'Reilly in 
his sanctum. Nothing above the floor was seldom molested 
by the office boy, especially since an event which happened 
some three years ago. During Mr. O'Reilly's absence some 
of the help thought it would be an excellent idea and op- 
portunity to clean up his office. Things were accordingly 
put " in order," to the satisfaction of aU but Mr. O'Reilly. 
To him the dismay could not have been much greater had 
fire consumed the place. In speaking of it he says : " And 
what do you think ! They had the paint washed. And I 
had a lot of valuable memoranda scribbled on my window 
frame, and they had them aU washed off, and I haven't the 
least idea what they were." 





THE HOMES OF OUR FAVORITES. 




Mrs. O'Eeilly is also quite a literary lady, and helped 
lier husband by conducting a department in the Pilot. 
The death of Mr. O'Eeilly, Sunday, August 10th, 1890, 
closed a most remarkable career, and took from us a noble 
man, a loving and devoted father and husband. We wih 
close with the beautiful verse written on his death by 
John McCann : 



L 



' ' To reach this world you broke your prison bars ; 

Since then the years have numbered three times seven ; 
And now your soul has gone beyond the stars 
To break into but never out of heaven." 







OUR FAVORITES. 




ROCK ME TO SLEEP. 

MRS. ELIZABETH AKERS. 

Backward, turn backward, Time ! in your fligM, 
Make me a child again, just for to-night ! 
Mother, come back from the echoless shore. 
Take me again to your heart, as of yore ; 
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, 
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair ; 
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 

Backward, flow backward, O swift tide of years ! 
I am weary of toU, I am weary of tears ; 
Toil without recompense, tears all in vain, 
Take them, and give me my childhood again ! 
I have grown weary of dust and decay. 
Weary of flinging my soul- wealth away, 
Weary of sowing for others to reap ; 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 

Tired of the hoUow, the base, the untrue, 
Mother, mother ! my heart calls for you ! 
Many a summer the grass has gi-own gi-een. 
Blossomed and faded, oui- faces between ; 
Yet Avith strong yearning and passionate pain, 
Long I to-night for your presence again ; 
Come from the silence so long and so deep — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 





OUR FAVORITES. 

Over my heart, in the days that are flown, 

No love like mother-love ever has shone. 

No other worship abides and endures 

Faithful, unselfish, and patient, like yours ; 

None like a mother can charm away pain 

From the sorrowing soul and the world-weary brain ; 

Slumber's soft calm o'er my heavy Hds creep ; 

Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 

Come, let your brown hair, just Ughted with gold. 
Fall on your shoulders again as of old ; 
Let it fall over my forehead to-night. 
Shielding my eyes from the flickering light ; 
For oh ! with its sunny-edged shadows once more, 
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore ; 
Lovingly, softly its bright biUows sweep — 
Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 

Mother, dear mother ! the years have been long 

Since last I was hushed by your lullaby song ; 

Sing then again, — to my soul it shall seem 

Womanhood's years have been only a dream ; 

Clasp to your arms in a loving embrace, 

With your soft, Hght lashes just sweeping my face, 

Never hereafter to wake or to weep ; 

Rock me to sleep, mother, rock me to sleep ! 




NO TIME LIKE THE OLD TIME. 

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 

There is no time like the old time, when you and I were 

young, 
When the buds of April blossomed and the birds of springtime 

sung! 
The garden's brightest glories by summer suns are nursed, 
But 0, the sweet, sweet violets, the flowers that opened first ! 







TOLD BT THE HOSPITAL NUESE. 



There is no place like the old place, where you and I were born, 
"Where we lifted first our eyelids on the splendors of the mom 
From the milk-white breast that warmed us, from the clinging 

arms that bore. 
Where the dear eyes ghstened o'er us that will look on us no more ! 

There is no friend hke the old friend, who has shared our morning 

days, 
No greeting hke his welcome, no homage like his praise ; 
Fame is the scentless sunflower, with gaudy crown of gold ; 
But Friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold. 

There is no love hke the old love, that we courted in our pride ; 
Though our leaves are falling, falling, and we're fading side by 

side ; 
There are blossoms all around us, with the colors of our dawn. 
And we live in borrowed sunshine when our day-star is withdrawn. 

There are no times like the old times — ^they shall never be forgot ! 
There is no place like the old place — ^keep green the dear old spot ! 
There are no friends like our old friends — may Heaven prolong 

their lives ! 
There are no loves like our old loves — God bless our loving wives ! 




TOLD BY THE HOSPITAL NURSE. 

O. B. MCBEATH. 

" Often have strange eases ? " Yes, sir ; frequently a case lies here 
With a story interesting, oft pathetic, sometimes queer — 
Novel-like, were not the heroes flesh and blood, as I and you. 
Such a one I well remember — ^patient Number Fifty-two. 
In the road a toddhng child, a mothei-'s agonizing scream — 
And thundering down the roadway speeds a carter's frightened 

team. 
All imnerved stares each bystander, seems there's nothing can be 

done; 
A sudden rush, a hasty clutch, and the child from death is won. 





^ 



OVB FAVORITES. 



But a horrid sight lies in the road for the gathering crowd to view — 
A brave man crushed by the cruel wheels — ^he filled bed Fifty-two. 
Through that night he suffered greatly, bravely bore it, Fifty-two ; 
But the morning, breaking gently, saw his hours on earth were few, 
So I sat me down beside him, hinting with a bated breath 
Life to all was so uncertain ; had he ever thought of death ? 
Would he hear the Bible woman tell the tale of heavenly love. 
Of the calm and peacef vd haven far beyond the stars above ? 
Where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest. 
Might I bring her to his bedside just to tell the story blest ? 
" Yes," he whispered, " bring her to me ; let me hear the good old 

Book." 
Quickly came the Bible woman, by his bed her seat she took. 
Noble httle woman was she, gentle mannered in her ways ; 
Rumor said her life was bhghted, crossed in love in bygone days, 
And her life from thence devoted to the needs of sick and poor, 
Soothing with her sweet attentions stricken souls at death's dark 

door. 
Quietly I stole away then, leaving her by Fifty-two, 
Gently telling in her own way story old yet ever new. 
But ere long the Bible woman beckoned me to come again, 
Fifty-two was fast succumbing, death's cold creeping numbed his 

pain. 
This I saw and whispered softly, "Ask him if we cannot send 
Anywhere that he might mention, anywhere he has a friend." 
Then the httle Bible woman, in a voice as sweet as low. 
Put the question gently to him, to receive his answer, " No." 
Once again did she address him, with her soft hand on his brow. 
Smoothed the burning, throbbing temples, " Fifty-two, you'll tell 

me now. 
Let me take a cherished message, let me tell your conduct brave. 
How you dashed into the roadway, risked your life a child's to 

save." 
" P'r'aps it's best," then came his answer ; " let them know the news 

at home. 
No need now to struggle further, for I feel my time has come. 
Years ago, when but a youngster, nothing but a country lad, 
Life to me seemed bright and joyous, just a round of promise 

glad. 







^ 



TOLD BY THE HOSPITAL NVBSE. 



For I loved the squire's daughter, and she loved me as I loved. 
With amaze her father heard this, hot with anger her reproved 
For such waywardness in stooping after hands by him employed. 
Said 'twas but a pack of nonsense ; if again she him annoyed 
By such folly he would stop it. For her sake I had to go, 
Quit the old folk and my sweetheart — ^hard to do, as lovers know. 
Yet I felt a kind of Ughtsome — country lads they hear so much 
Of the fortunes in the big towns — God knows there are few of 

such; 
For I've labored, hoped and struggled, while the old folk home they 

died. 
Long I worked on with a stout heart, picturing with honest pride 
That one day when I might venture to redeem the vow I'd made 
To my cherished one that evening when we met in twilight shade. 
Ere we parted, I remember, being seized by lover's whim, 
Pleading for some trifling token her own Jack could take with him 
'Midst the mighty city's throbbing while he strove in Fortune's 

race — 
Something he could dearly treasure, something he would ne'er dis- 
grace. 
Years roUed on, I wore her token with a saeredness of heart ; 
As a knight of old I'd promised ' Death her charm and me should 

part.' 
And it's coming, creeping on me — God, how tme the words are 

now! 
' Death her charm and me should pai-t,' " gasped he, " but I've kept 

my vow." 
Sinking fast, he feebly whispered, " TeU her I've been loyal, true ; 
Nm-se, you'll say a good word, won't you, for youi* patient, Fifty- 
two? 
Give her this," and then he laid bare with a trembling, nervous 

hand. 
Round his neck a slender coU of dark brown hair in plaited band. 
"TeU my Maggie I have worn it since she placed it there that 

night." 
Here the Bible woman trembled, while her face turned ghastly 

white. 
" Take it off, nurse, let me kiss it ; say in heaven I wait for her." 
But ere I could raise a finger, with excitement all astir 







^A—- 




OUR FAVORITES. 



Sank the little Bible woman on her knees beside his bed, 

'■ Jack, my own Jack ! here's your Maggie ! " Sir, I had to turn my 

head. 
Painter ne'er could paint the picture round the bed of Fifty-two, 
And it's useless my attempting to describe the scene to you. 
How he feebly murmured "Maggie!" How she sobbed in an- 
guished joy. 
While the old love leapt within her as she kissed her country boy, 
" Strange if true, sir ? " ' 'Tis indeed a story true as it is queer, 
And the httle Bible woman since his death still visits here. 
This in strictest confidence, sir. That's the httle lady there 
By the table tending flowers. " What about the plait of hair ? " 
" Nurse," said she, " hke him, I'll wear it, sacred now to me is this, 
Consecrated by the ritual of my brave Jack's dying kiss." 



HEAVEN. 




BY BliLA WHEELER. 

I DOUBT not but to every mind of mortal, 
That Heaven in a different form appears, 

And every one who hopes to pass the portal. 
Where God shall wipe away all bitter tears, 

Seeth the mansion in a separate guise. 

And there are many heavens to many eyes. 

To me, it seems a world where all the sweetness 
That I have in my wildest dreams conceived ; 

The subtle beauty and the rare completeness 

That I have missed in life, and, missing, grieved ; 

The things that I have sought for all my hf e, 

And if I found, found mixed with pain and strife. 

That rest, that mortal mind can never measure ; 

That peace, that we can never understand ; 
The keen delights that fill the soul with pleasure ; 

These, these I deem are what that blessed land 
Lying beyond the pearly gates doth hold, — 
Where the broad street is paved with shining gold. 





THE DAPPLE MABE. 

A total putting off of care and sorrow, 
As we put by old garments. Rest so deep 

That 'tis not marred by thoughts of the to-morrow, 
Or pained by tears, for never any weep. 

The love, unchangeable, unselfish, strong, — 

That I have craved, with heart and soul, so long. 

All these I hope, in that vast Forever, 

Of which we di'eam, nor mortal eye hath seen, 

When death's pale craft shall bear me o'er the river. 
To find in waiting on the shores of green. 

And in that haven, how my soul shall raise 

Unceasing songs of gratitude and praise. 




THE DAPPLE MARE. 




J. G. SAXE. 

" Once on a time," as ancient tales declare, 

There lived a farmer in a quiet dell 
In Massachusetts, but exactly where, 

Or when, is really more than I can tell — 
Except that, quite above the pubhe bounty. 
He lived within his means, and Bristol county. 

By patient labor and unceasing care. 

He earned, and so enjoyed, his daily bread ; 

Contented always with his frugal fare. 
Ambition to be rich ne'er vexed his head ; 

And thus unknown to envy, want, or wealth. 

He flourished long in comfort, peace, and health. 

The gentle partner of his humble lot. 

The joy and jewel of his wedded life. 
Discharged the duties of his peaceful cot 

Like a true woman and a faithful wife ; 
Her mind improved by thought and useful i*eading, 
Kind words and gentle manners showed her breeding. 







OUB FAVORITES. 

Grown old at last, the fanner called his son, 
' The youngest, (and the favorite, I suppose. 
And said — " I long have thought, my darling John, 

'Tis time to bring my labors to a close ; 
So now to toil I mean to bid adieu, 
And deed, my son, the homestead farm to you." 

The boy embraced the boon with vast delight. 
And promised, wlule their precious lives remained, 

He'd till and tend the farm from mom tUl night. 
And see his parents handsomely maintaiaed ; 

God help him, he would never fail to love, nor 

Do aught to grieve his generous old gov'nor ! 

The farmer said — " Well, let us now proceed, 
(You know there's always danger in delays,) 

And get 'Squire Robinson to write the deed ; 

Come — Where's my staff ? we'U soon be on the way." 

But John repHed with tender, filial care, 

" You're old and weak — I'U catch the Dapple Mare." 

The mare was saddled, and the old man got on, 
The boy on foot trudged cheerfully along. 

The while, to cheer his sire, the duteous son 
Beguiled the weary way with talk and song. 

Arrived at length, they found the 'Squire at home, 

And quickly told him wherefore they had come. 

The deed was writ in proper form of law. 

With many a " foresaid," " therefore," " and the same," 
And made throughout without mistake or flaw. 

To show that John had now a legal claim 
To all his father's land — conveyed, given, sold. 
Quit-claimed, et cetera — to have and hold. 

Their business done, they left the lawyer's door. 

Happier, perhaps, than when they entered there ; 
And started off as they had done before — 

The son on foot, the father on the mare. 
But ere the twain a single mile had gone 
A brilliant thought occurred to Master John. 





THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 

Alas for truth ! — alas for filial duty ! 

Alas ! that Satan in the shape of pride, 
(His most bewitching form save that of beauty,) 

Whispered the lad : " My boy, you ought to ride ! " 
" Get off ! " exclaimed the jounker, " 'tisn't fair 
That you should always ride the Dapple Mare." 

The son was lusty, and the sire was old, 
And so, with many an oath and many a frown, 

The hapless farmer did as he was told, — 
The man got off the steed, the boy' got on, 

And rode away as fast as she could trot. 

And left his sire to trudge it home on foot ! 

That night, while seated round the kitchen fire, 
The household sat, cheerful as if no word 

Or deed provoked the injured father's ire. 

Or aught to make him sad had e'er occurred — 

Thus spoke he to his son : " We quite forgot, 

I think, t' include the little turnip lot ! 

" I'm very sure, my son, it wouldn't hurt it," 

Calmly observed the meditative sire, 
" To take the deed, my lad, and just insert it." 

Here the old man inserts it — ^in the fixe ! 
Then cries aloud with most triumphant air : 
" Who now, my son, shall ride the Dapple Mare ! " 





THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 

SAMUEL WOODWOBTH. 

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood. 
When fond recollection presents them to view ! 

The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood. 
And every loved spot which my infancy knew ; — 

The wide-spreading pond, and the null that stood by it, 
The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell ; 





OUB FAVOBITES. 

The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it, 

And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well. 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 
The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. 

That moss-covered vessel I hail as a treasure ; 

For often, at noon, when returned from the field, 
I found it a source of an exquisite pleasure, 

The purest and sweetest that nature can yield. 
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing ! 

And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell ; 
Then soon, with the emblem of truth ovei'flowing. 

And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well ; 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 
The moss-covered bucket, arose fi'om the well. 

How sweet from the gi'een, mossy brim to receive it. 

As, poised on the curb, it inclined to my hps ! 
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it, 

Though filled with the nectar that Jupiter sips. 
And now, far removed from the loved situation, 

The tear of regret will intrusively sweU, 
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation. 

And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well 
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket. 
The moss-covered bucket which hangs in the well. 




THE FUNERAL. 

WILL CARLETON. 




I WAS walking in Savannah, past a church decayed and dim, 
When there slowly through the window came a plaintive funeral 

hymn; 
And a sympathy awakened, and a wonder quickly grew, 
Till I found myself environed in a Uttle negro pew. 

Out at front a colored couple sat in sorrow, nearly wild ; 
On the altar was a cof&n, in the cofftn was a child. 






THE FUNERAL. 

I could picture >iim when living — curly hair, protruding lip — 
And had seen, perhaps, a thousand, in my hurried Southern trip. 

But no baby ever rested in the soothing arms of Death 

That had fanned more flames of soitow with his little fluttering 

breath ; 

And no ftmeral ever ghstened with more sympathy profound 
Than was in the chain of tear-drops that enclasped those mourners 

round. 

Eose a sad old colored preacher at the httle wooden desk — 
With a manner grandly awkward, with a countenance grotesque ; 
"With simphcity and shrewdness on his Ethiopian face ; 
With the ignorance and wisdom of a crushed vmdying race. 

And he said : " Now don' be weepin' for dis pretty bit o' clay — 
For de httle boy who hved dere, he done gone an' run away ! 
He was doia' very finely, an' he 'preciate your love ; 
But his sure 'nufl Father want him in de large house up above. 

" Now he didn't give you dat baby, by a hundred thousan' mile ! 
He just think you need some sunshine, an' he lend it for awhile ! 
An' he let you keep an' love it tUl your hearts was bigger grown, 
An' dese silver tears your sheddin's jes de interest on de loan. 

" Here's yer oder pretty chilrun ! — don' be makin' it appear 
Dat yom' love got sort o' 'nop'Hzed by dis httle fellow here ; 
Don' pile up too much your sorrow on deir httle mental shelves, 
So's to kind o' set 'em wonderin' if dey're no account demselves. 

" Just you thiak, you poor deah mounahs, creepia' long o'er Sor- 
row's way. 
What a blessed httle picnic dis yere baby's got to-day ! 
Your good f aders and good moders crowd de httle f eUow round 
In de angel-tented garden of de Big Plantation Ground. 

"An' dey ask him, ' Was your feet sore ? ' an' take off his httle shoes, 
An' dey wash him, an' dey kiss him, an' dey say, ' Now, what's de 

news ? ' 
An' de Lawd done cut his tongue loose ; den de Httle feUow say, 
'All our folks down in de valley tries to keep de hebbenly way.' 







OUE FAVORITES. 



"An' his eyes dey brightly sparkle at de pretty tings he view ; 
Den a tear come, an' he whisper, ' But I want my pa'yents, to ! 
But de Angel Chief Musician teach dat boy a little song ; 
Says, ' If only dey be f ait'f ul dey will soon be comin' long.' 

"An' he'U get an education dat will proberbly be worth 
Seberal times as much as any you could buy for him on earth ; 
He'U be in de Lawd's big school house, widout no contempt or fear ; 
WMle dere's no end to de bad tings might have happened to him 
here, 

" So, my pooah dejected mounahs, let your hearts wid Jesus rest, 
An' don' go ter criticisin' dat ar One w'at knows de best ! 
He have sent us many comforts — He have right to take away — 
To de Lawd be praise an' glory, now and ever ! — Let us pray." 




THE LIFE FOR WHICH I LONG. 

JOHN G. WmTTIER. 

"When on my day of light the night is faUing, 
And in the winds from unsunned spaces blown, 

I hear far voices out of darkness calling 
My feet to paths unknown. 

Thou who hast made my home of Ufe so pleasant, 
Leave not its tenant when its walls decay ; 

love divine, O Helper ever present, 
Be Thou my help and stay ! 

Be near me when all else is from me drifting, 
Earth, sky, home's picture, days of shade and shine. 

And kindly faces to my own uplifting 
The love which answers mine. 

1 have but Thee, Father ! Let Thy spirit 
Be with me, then, to comfort and uphold ; 

No gate of pearl, no branch of palm I merit. 
Nor street of shining gold. 





THE RAIN UPON THE BOOF. 




Suffice it if, my good and ill unreekoned, 
And both forgiven through Thy 'bounding grace, 

I find myself by hands familiar beckoned 
Unto my fitting place — 

Some humble door among Thy many mansions, 
Some sheltering shade where sia and striving cease, 

And flows forever through heaven's green expansions 
The river of Thy peace. 

There, from the music round about me stealing, 
I fain would learn the new and holy song, 

And find at last, beneath Thy trees of healing, 
The life for which I long. 




THE RAIN UPON THE ROOF. 

COATES KINNEY. 

When the himiid shadows hover 

Over aU the starry spheres. 
And the melancholy darkness 

Gently weeps in rainy tears. 
What a joy to press the pUlow 

Of a cottage chamber bed, 
And to listen to the patter 

Of the soft rain overhead. 

Every tinkle on the shingles 

Wakes an echo in the heart. 
And a thousand dreamy fancies 

Into busy being start ; 
And a thousand recollections 

Weave their bright hues into woof, 
As I listen to the patter 

Of the rain upon the roof. 

Now in fancy comes my mother. 
As she used, long years agone, 





OUB FAVORITES. 

To regard her darling dreamers 
Ere she left them till the dawn. 

Oh ! I see her bendrag o'er me, 
As I Ust to the refrain, 

Which is played upon the shingles 
By the patter of the rain. 

Then my little seraph sister. 

With her wings and wavy hair. 
And my bright-eyed cherub brothei* — 

A serene, angehc pair — 
Ghde around my wakeful pillow, 

With their smile, or mild reproof, 
As I listen to the murmurs 

Of the rain upon the roof. 

And another comes to thriU me 

With her eyes delicious blue ; 
I forget while gazing on her 

That her heart was all untrue. 
I remember but to love her, 

With a rapture kin to pain. 
While my heart's quick pidses vibrate 

To the patter of the rain. 

There is naught in art's bravuras 

That can work with such a speU 
In the spirit's pure, deep fountains 

Whence the holy passions well, 
As that melody of Nature, 

That subdued, subduing strain 
WMch is played upon the shingles 

By the patter of the rain. 







;^ 



A BROKEN FAN. 

Ancestress mine, in the gilded frame, 

From your time-dimmed canvas smiling 
down, 
This fan I hold is the very same. 

As that on the breast of your satin gown. 
II. 
Quaint in vaporous ruff you stand, 

And your fan of sillc and ivory liold. 
Do you wonder to see it within my hand. 

With its grievous break of a century old ? 
III. 
How came your ivory fan to break ? 

And why did you keep it broken so? 
Was it for periwigged gallants' sake. 

Who crumbled to ashes, long ago ? 

IV. 

Small beautiful head, erect and proud, 

On slender neck, like a lily set, 
Did you furtive turn, as he walked and bowed, 

With some one else in the minuet.? 

V. 

Did you fan more fitfully as he spoke. 
And your Heaven-blue eyes grow strangely 
dim ? 
Did you fail to see when the ivory broke, 
Though you looked at the spangles — not at 
him ? 

VI. 

Great-great-grandfather, near her hung. 
With antique coat and powdered hair. 

Was it you, I wonder, gay and young. 
Who whispered then beside her chair? 

VII. 

Or was it another — false or dead ? 

Was there a story you never knew ? 
For why should she care, when you were 
wed. 

To treasure the fan — when she had you ? 

VIII. 

She's wearing her cool patrician stare, 

Forbidding my eyes her face to 

scan : — 

But you had your tremors, lady fair. 

When you laid away this broken 

fan! 

Annie Steg^er Winston. 





FORTY TEARS AGO. 



FORTY YEARS AGO. 

I've wandered to the village, Tom ; I've sat beneath the tree 
Upon the school-honse playgi'ound, which sheltered you and me ; 
But none were there to greet me, Tom, and few were left to know, 
That played with us upon the green, some forty years ago. 

The grass was just as green, Tom, barefooted boys at play. 
Were sporting just as we did then, with spirits just as gay, 
But Master sleeps upon the hiU, which, coated o'er with snow, 
Afforded us a sliding place, just forty years ago. 

The school-house has altered some — the benches are replaced 
By new ones, very like the same our pen-knives had defaced ; 
But the same old bricks ai*e m the wall — the beU swings to and fro, 
Its music just the same, dear Tom, 'twas forty years ago. 

The boys were playing some old game, beneath the same old tree, 
I do forget the name just now — you've played the same with me — 
On that same spot, 'twas played with knives, by throwing so and so. 
The leader had a task to do — there forty years ago. 

The river's ininning just as still, the willows on its side 

Are larger than they were, Tom, the stream appears less wide ; 

But the gi'ape-vine swing is ruined now, where once we played the 

beau. 
And swung our sweethearts, pretty girls, just forty years ago. 

The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, close by the spreading 

beech. 
Is very low — 'twas once so high, that we could almost reach ; 
And kneeling down to get a drink, dear Tom, I startled so. 
To see how much I've changed, since forty years ago. 

Near by the spring, upon an elm, you know I cut your name. 
Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom, and you did mine the same ; 
Some heartless wretch has peeled the bark, 'twas dying sure but 

slow, 
Just as that one, whose name you cut, died forty years ago. 






OUB FAVORITES. 

My lids have long been dry, Tom, but tears came in my eyes, 
I tbought of her I loved so well, those early broken ties ; 
I visited the old church-yard, and took some flowers to strew 
Upon the graves of those we loved, some forty years ago. 

Some are in the church-yard laid — some sleep beneath the sea, 
But few are left of our old class, excepting you and me ; 
And when our time shall come, Tom, and we are called to go, 
I hope they'U lay us where we played, just forty years ago. 




I 



THE AGED STRANGER. 




BRET HAETE. 

" I WAS with Grant " — the stranger said ; 

Said the farmer, " Say no more. 
But rest thee here at my cottage porch, 

For thy feet are weary and sore." 

" I was with Grant " — the stranger said ; 

Said the farmer, " Nay, no more, — 
I prithee sit at my frugal board. 

And eat of my humble store. 

" How fares my boy, — my soldier boy. 
Of the old Ninth Army Corps ? 

I warrant he bore him gallantly 

In the smoke and the battle's roar ! " 

" I know him not," said the aged man, 

"And, as I remarked before, 
I was with Grant " — " Nay, nay, I know," 

Said the farmer, " say no more ; 

" He fell in battle, — I see, alas ! 

Thou'dst smooth these tidings o'er — 
Nay, speak the truth, whatever it be, 

Though it rend my bosom's core. 





OUR PATTERN. 



How fell he, — with his face to the foe, 
Upholding the flag 'he bore? 
O say not that my boy disgraced 
The uniform, that he wore ! " 

" I cannot teU," said the aged man, 
"And should have remarked before, 

That I was with Grant — in lUinois — 
Some three years before the war." 

Then the farmer spake him never a word, 
But beat with his fist f uU sore 

That aged man who had worked for Grrant 
Some three years before the war. 




OUR PATTERN. 



PHEBE GARY. 




A WEAVER sat one day at his loom 

Among the colors bright. 
With the pattern for his copying 

Himg fair and plain in sight. 

But the weaver's thoughts were wandering 

Away on the distant track. 
As he threw the shuttle in his hand 

"Wearily forward and back. 

And he turned his dim eyes to the ground 

And tears fell on the woof. 
For his thoughts, alas ! were not with his home 

Nor the wife beneath its roof. 

When her voice recalled him suddenly 

To himself, as she sadly said ; 
"Ah, woe is me ! for your work is spoiled. 

And what wiU we do for bread ? " 





OUB FAVORITES. 

And then the weaver looked and saw 

His work must be undone ; 
For the threads were wrong, and the colors dimmed 

Where the bitter tears had run. 

"Alack ! alack ! " said the weaver, 

"And this had all been right 
If I had not looked at my work, but kept 

The pattern in my sight." 

Ah, sad it was for the weaver. 

And sad for his luckless wife ; 
And sad it will be for us if we say, 

At the end of our task of hf e : 

" The colors that we had to weave 

Were bright in our early years ; 
But we wove the tissues wrong and stained 

The woof with bitter tears. 

" We wove a web of doubt and fear — 

Not faith, and hope and love — 
Because we looked at our work, and not 

Our pattern above." 





AN ORDER FOR A PICTURE. 

O GOOD painter, teU me true, 

Has your hand the cunning to draw 
Shapes of thiags that you never saw ? 

Ay ? Well, here is an order for you. 

Woods and cornfields, a little brown, — 
The picture must not be over-bright, 
Yet aU in the golden and gracious light 

Of a cloud, when the summer sim is down. 

Alway and alway, night and morn. 
Woods upon woods, with fields of com 





AN ORDEB FOB A PICTUBE. 



Lying between them, not quite sere, 
And not in the full, thick, leafy bloom. 
When the wind can hardly find breathing room 

Under their tassels, — cattle near. 
Biting shorter the short, green grass. 
And a hedge of sumach and sassafras. 
With bluebirds twittering all around, — 
(Ah, good painter, you can't paint sound !) 

These, and the house where I was bom, 
Low and httle, and black and old, 
With children, many as it can hold, 
All at the windows, open wide, — 
Heads and shoulders clear outside, 
And fair young faces all ablush : 

Perhaps you may have seen, some day, 
Roses crowding the self -same way. 
Out of a wilding, wayside bush. 




Listen closer. When you have done 

With woods and cornfields and grazing herds, 
A lady, the loveUest ever the sun 

Looked down upon, you must paint for me ; 

Oh, if I only could make you see 

The clear blue eyes, the tender smile, 

The sovereign sweetness, the gentle grace. 

The woman's soul, and the angel's face 
That are beaming on me aU the while, 
I need not speak these foolish words : 
Yet one word teUs you aU I would say, — 

She is my mother : you wiU. agree 

That aU the rest may be thrown away. 




Two little urchins at her knee 
You must paint, sir ; one hke me. 
The other with a clearer brow, 
And the light of his adventurous eyes 
Flashing with boldest enterprise : 
At ten years old he went to sea, — 

God knoweth if he be living now ; 





OUB FAVORITES. 



He sailed in the good sMp " Commodore," — 
Nobody ever crossed her track 
To bring us news, and she never came back. 

Ah, 'tis twenty long years and more 
Since that old ship went out of the bay 

With my great-hearted brother on her deck : 

I watched him tiU he shrank to a speck, 
And his face was toward me aU the way. 
Bright his hair was, a golden brown. 

The time we stood at onr mother's knee : 
That beauteous head, if it did go down. 

Carried sunshine into the sea ! 





Out in the fields one siimmer night, 

We were together, half afraid 
Of the corn-leaves' rustling, and the shade 

Of the high hiUs, stretching so stiU and far, — 
Loitering till after the low httle Mght 

Of the candle shone through the open door, 
And over the haystack's pointed top. 
All of a tremble and ready to drop, 

The first half hour, the great yeUow star. 

That we with staring, ignorant eyes. 
Had often and often watched to see, 

Propped and held in its place in the skies 
By the fork of a tall red mulberry tree. 

Which close in the edge of our flax-field grew,- 
Dead at the top, — ^Just one branch fuU 
Of leaves, notched round, and lined with wool. 

From which it tenderly shook the dew 
Over our heads, when we came to play 
In its handbreadth of shadow day after day. 

Afraid to go home, sir ; for one of us bore 
A nest f uU of speckled and thin-shelled eggs ; • 
The other, a bird, held fast by the legs, 
Not so big as a straw of wheat : 
The berries we gave her she wouldn't eat, 
But cried and cried, till we held her bill, 
So slim and shining, to keep her stiU. 





DANIEL GRAY. 




At last we stood at our mother's knee. 

Do you think, sir, if you try, 

You can paint the look of a lie ? 

If you can, pray have the grace 

To put it solely in the face 
Of the urchin that is likest me. 

I think 'twas solely mine, indeed : 
But that's no matter — ^paint it so ; 

The eyes of our mother — (take good heed) — 
Looking not on the nestful of eggs, 
Nor the fluttering bird, held so fast by the legs. 
But straight through our faces down to our lies, 
And oh, with such injured, reproachful surprise ! 

I felt my heai't bleed where that glance went, as though 

A sharp blade struck through it. 

You, sir, know 
That you on the canvas are to repeat 
Things that are fairest, things most sweet, — 
Woods and cornfields and mulberry tree, — 
The mother, — ^the lads, with their bird, at her knee : 

But, oh, that look of reproachful woe ! 
High as the heavens your name I'll shout, 
If you paint me the picture, and leave that out. 



DANIEL GRAY. 

In all of the late Dr. Holland's writings we know of nothing which equals 
in pathos and tenderness the following beautiful poem, and its value is en- 
hanced when it is known that the author described his own father in "Old 
Daniel Gray " : 

If I shall ever win the home in heaven, 
• For whose sweet rest I humbly pray. 
In the great company of the forgiven, 
I shaU be sure to find old Daniel Gray. 

Old Daniel Gray was not a man who lifted 
On ready words his weight of gratitude, 







OUB FAVORITES. 

And was not called among the gifted, 

In the prayer-meeting of his neighborhood. 

He had a few old-fashioned words and phrases, 
Linked in with sacred texts and Sunday rhymes, 

And I suppose that in his prayers and graces 
I've heard them at least a thousand times. 

I see him now — ^his form, his face, his motions. 
His homespun habit and his silver hair. 

And hear the language of his trite devotions, 
Rising behind the straight-backed kitchen chair. 

I can remember how the sentence sounded — 
" Help us, O Lord, to pray and not to faint ! " 

And how the " conquering and to conquer " rounded 
The loftier inspirations of the saint. 

He had some notions that did not improve hiTn : 
He never kissed his children — so they say. 

And finest scenes and fairest flowers would move him 
Less than a horse-shoe picked up on his way. 

He had a hearty hatred of oppression. 
And righteous word for sin of any kind : 

Alas, that the transgressor and transgression 
Were linked together in his honest mind. 

He could see naught but vanity in beauty. 
And naught but weakness in a fond caress. 

And pitied men whose views of Christian duty 
Allowed indulgence in such foolishness. 

Yet there were love and tenderness within him, 
And I am told that when his Charley died. 

Nor nature's needs nor gentle words could win him 
From his fond vigils at the sleeper's side. 

And when they came to bury little Charley, 

They found fresh dew-drops sprinkled in his hair ; 

And on his breast a rose-bud gathered early. 

And guessed, but did not know, who put it there. 






THE OLD MAN GOES TO TOWN. 



Honest and faithful, consistent ia Ms calling, 
Strictly attendant on the means of grace, 

Instant in prayer, and fearful most of failing, 
Old Daniel Gray was always in. his place. 

A practical old man and yet a dreamer. 

He thought in some strange, unlooked-for way. 

His mighty Friend in Heaven, the great Redeemer, 
"Would honor him with wealth some golden day. 

This dream he carried iu a hopeful spirit, 
Until iu death his patient eye gi*ew dim, 

And his Redeemer called him to inherit 

The heaven of wealth long gathered up for him. 

So if I ever win the home ia heaven, 
For whose sweet rest I humbly hope and pray, 

In the great company of the forgiven, 
I shall be sure to find old Daniel Gray. 




THE OLD MAN GOES TO TOWN. 

Well, wife, I've been to 'Frisco, an' I called to see the boys ; 
I'm tired, an' more'n half deafened with the travel and the noise ; 
So I'U sit down by the chimbley, and rest my weary bones, 
And teU how I was treated by our 'ristocratic sons. 

As soon's I reached the city, I hunted up our Dan — 

Ye know he's now a celebrated wholesale business man. 

I walked down from the depo' — ^but Dan keeps a country seat — 

An' I thought to go home with him, an' rest my weary feet. 

All the way I kep' a-thinMn' how famous it 'ud be 

To go 'round the town together — ^my grown-up boy an' me, 

An' remember the old times, when my httle " curly head " 

Used to cry out " Good-night, papa ! " from his httle trundle-bed. 

I never thought a minute that he wouldn't want to see 
His gray an' worn old father, or would be ashamed of me ; 







OUB FAVORITES. 

So when I seen his office, with a sign writ out in gold, 

I walked in 'thout knockin' — ^but the old man was too bold. 

Dan was settin' by a table, an' a-writin' ia a book ; 
He knowed me in a second ; but he gave me such a look ! 
He never said a word o' you, but axed about the grain, 
An' ef I thought the vaUey didn't need a Httle rain. 

I didn't stay a great while, but tnquii^ed after Rob ; 
Dan said he lived upon the hill — I think they caU it Nob ; 
An' when I left, Dan, in a tone that almost broke me down, 
Said, " Call an' see me, won't ye, whenever you're in town?" 

It was rather late that evenin' when I found our Robert's house ; 
There was music, lights, and dancin', and a mighty big carouse. 
At the door a nigger met me, an' he grinned from ear to ear, 
Sayin' " Keerds ob invitation, or you nebber git in here." 

I said I was Bob's father ; an' with another grin 
The nigger left me standin' and disappeared within. 
Bob came out on the porch — ^he didn't order me away ; 
But he said he hoped to see me at his office the next day. 

Then I started fur a tavern, fur I knowed there, anyway, 
They wouldn't turn me out so long's I'd money fur to pay. 
An' Rob an' Dan had left me about the streets to roam, 
An' neither of them axed me if I'd money to git home. 

It may be the way o' rich folks — I don't say 'at it is not — 
But we remember some things Dan and Rob have quite forgot. 
"We didn't quite expect this, wife, when, twenty years ago, 
We mortgaged the old homestead to give Rob and Dan a show. 

I didn't look fur Charley, but I happened just to meet 
Him with a lot o' friends o' his'n a-comin' down the street. 
I thought I'd pass on by him, for fear our youngest son 
Would show he was ashamed o' me, as Rob and Dan had done. 

But as soon as Charley seen me, he, right afore 'em aU, 
Said : " God bless me, there's my father ! " as loud as he could bawl 
Then he introduced me to his frien's, an' sent 'em all away, 
TeUin' 'em he'd see 'em later, but was busy for that day. 







THE OLD MAN GOES TO TOWN. 

Then he took me out to dinner, an' he axed about the house, 
About you, an' Sally's baby, an' the chickens, pigs an' cows ; 
He axed about his brothers, addin' that 'twas ruther queer. 
But he hadn't seen one uv 'em fur mighty nigh a year. 

Then he took me to his lodgin', in an attic four stairs high — 
He said he liked it better 'cause 'twas nearer to the sky. 
An' he said : " I've only one room, but my bed is pretty wide," 
An' so we slept together, me an' Charley, side by side. 

Next day we went together to the great Mechanics' Fair, 
An' some o' Charley's picters was on exhibition there. 
He said if he could sell 'em, which he hoped to pretty soon, 
He'd make us all a visit, an' be richer than Muldoon. 

An' so two days an' nights we passed, an' when I come away. 
Poor Charley said the time was short, an' begged fur me to stay. 
Then he took me in a buggy, an' druv me to the train. 
An' said in just a little while he'd see us all again. 

You know we never thought our Charley would ever come to much ; 
He was always readin' novels an' poetry and such. 
There was nothing on the farm he ever seemed to want to do. 
An' when he took to paintin' he disgusted me clear through ! 

So we gave to Rob and Dan all we had to call our own, 
An' left poor Charley penniless to make his way alone ; 
He's only a poor paiuter ; Rob and Dan are rich as sin ; 
But Charley's worth a pan* of 'em with all their gold thrown in. 

Those two grand men, dear wife, were once our pratthng babes — 

an' yet 
It seems as if a mighty gulf 'twixt them an' us is set ; 
An' they'll never know the old folks till hfe's troubled journey's 

past. 
And rich and poor are equal underneath the sod at last. 

An' maybe when we all meet on the resuiTCction morn, 
With our eaiihly glories fallen, like the husks from the ripe corn, — 
When the righteous Son of Man the awful sentence shall have said. 
The brightest crown that's shining there may be on Charley's head. 








OUB FAVORITES. 



WHY HE WOULDN'T SELL THE FARM. 

A. ALPHONSE DAYTON. 

Here, John ! you drive the cows up, while your mar brings out 

the pails ; 
But don't ye let me ketch yer hangin' onter them cows' tails, 
An' chasin' them acrost that lot at sich a tarin' rate ; 
An', John, when you cum out, be sure and shet the pastur" gate. 

It's strange that boy will never larn to notice what I say ; 
I'm 'fraid he'U git to rulin' me, if things goes on this way ; 
But boys is boys, an' wlU be boys, tiU. ther grown up to men, 
An' John's 'bout as good a lad as the average of 'em. 

I'U teU ye, stranger, how it is ; I feel a heap o' pride 

In thet boy — ^he's our only one sence little Neddy died ; 

Don't mind me, sir, I'm growin' old, my eye-sight 's gittin' dim ; 

But 't seems sumhow a kind o' mist cums long o' thoughts of him. 

Jes' set down on the door step, Squar, an' make yerself to hum ; 
While Johnny's bringin' up the cows, I'U teU ye how it cum 
Thet all our boys has left us, 'ceptin' Johnny there, 
And I reckon, stranger, countin' all, we've had about our share. 

Thar was our first boy, Benjamin, the oldest of them aU, 

He was the smartest little chap, so chipper, pert, an' small. 

He cum to us one sun-bright morn, as merry as a lark, 

It would ha' done your soul good, Squar, to seen the little spark. 

An' thar was Tom, " a han'sum boy," his mother aUus said, 
He took to books, and I'arned so spry, we put the sprig ahead — 
His skoolin' cleaned the httle pile we'd laid by in the chest, 
But I's bound to give the boy a chance to do his "level best." 

Our third one's name was Samuel ; he grow'd up here to hum. 
An' worked with me upon the farm tiU he was twenty-one ; 
Fur Benjamin had I'arned a trade — ^he didn't take to work ; 
Tom, mixin' up in poUtics, got 'lected County Clerk. 





WHY HE WOULDN'T SELL THE FARM. 




We ken all remember, stranger, the year of sixty-one, 
When the spark thet tetched the powder off in that Conf ed'ret gxin 
Flashed like a streak o' lightnin' up acrost from East to West, 
An' left a spot thet burned like fire in every patriot's breast. 

An' I tell ye what it was, Sqnar, my boys cum up to the scratch. 
They all had a share o' the old man's grit, with enough of their 

own to match — 
They show'd ther colors, an' set ther flint, ther names went down 

on the roll. 
An' Benjamin, Thomas, an' Sam was pledged to preserve the old 

flag whole. 

They all cum hum together at the last, rigged up in soldier's 

clothes ; 
It made my old heart thump with pride, an' ther mother's spirits rose. 
Fur she'd been " down in the mouth " sum what, sence she'd heard 

what the boys had done, 
Fui- it took aU three, an' it's hard enough fur a mother to give up 

one. 

But therwam't a drop of coward's blood in her veins, I ken tell 

you first. 
Fur she'd send the boys, an' the old man, too, if worst had come 

to worst ; 
I shall never forgit the last night, when we all kneeled down to 

pray, 
How she give 'em, one by one, to God, in the hush of the twilight 

gray. 

An' then, when morning broke so clear — not a cloud was in the 

sky— 
The boys cum in with sober looks to bid us their last good-bye ; 
I didn't 'spect she would stand it aU with her face so firm and 

calm. 
But she didn't break nor give in a peg till she cum to kissin' Sam. 

An' then it all cum out at onst, like a storm from a thunder-cloud — 
She jest sot down on the kitchen-floor, broke out with a sob so 
loud 






*^ 




OVB FAVORITES. 



Thet Sam give up, an' the boys cum back, and they aU got down 

by ber tbere, 
An' I'm thinkin' 't would make an angel ciy to bev seen tbet 

partin', Squar ! 

I think she bad a f orewamin', fur when they brought back poor 

Sam, 
She sot down by his coffin there, with her face so white an' cahn, 
An' the neighbors thet cum a-pourin' in to see our soldier dead. 
Went out with a hush on their trembUn' bps, an' the words in ther 

hearts unsaid. 

Stranger, perhaps you heerd of Sam, how be broke thro' thet 

Secesh Une, 
An' planted the old flag high an' dry, where its dear old stars could 

shine; 
An' after our soldiers won the day, an' a-gatherin' up the dead, 
They found our boy with his brave heart still, and the flag above 

his head. 

An' Tom was shot at Gettysburg, in the hottest of the fray — 

They said thet he led his gallant boys like a hero thro' thet day ; 

But they brought him back with his clear voice hushed in the 
sUent sleep of death. 

An' another grave grew grassy green 'neath the kiss of the Sum- 
mer's breath. 

An' Benjamin, he cum hum at last, but it made my old eyes ache 
To see Mm lay with thet patient look, when it seemed thet his 

heart would break 
With his pain an' wounds ; but he lingered on tiU the flowers died 

away, 
An' then we laid him down to rest, in the calm of the Autumn day. 

Will I sell the old farm, stranger, the house where my boys were 

bom? 
Jes' look down thro' the orchard, Squar, beyond that field o' com — 
Ken ye see them four white marble stuns gleam out thro' the 

orchard glade ? 
Wall, all thet is left of our boys on arth rests under them old trees' 

shade. 






MY EARLY HOME. 



But there eums John with the cows, ye see, an' it's 'bout my mUkin'- 

time; 
If ye happen along this way agin, jes' stop in at eny time. 
Oh, ye axed if I'd eny notion the old farm would ever be sold : 
Wall ! may be, Squar, but I'll teU ye plain, 'twill be when the old 

man's cold. 




MY EARLY HOME. 



t 



ALEXANDER CLARK. 

Love, Peace, and Repose ! the tenderest trio 

Of musical words ever blended in one — 
That one word is Home — 'mid the hiUs of Ohio — 

Dear home of my childhood in years that are gone. 

There, father and mother, two sisters, one brother. 
With hopes, like their hearts, united, abide. 

Their treasures in this world are few ; in another, 
A heritage holy and glory beside. 

In fancy I wander, this sweet summer morning. 
Away to the wheat-field, just over the hUl ; 

'Tis harvest-time now, and the reapers are coming 
To gather the waiting grain, golden and still. 

Many harvests have passed, many summers have ended, 
Since here I oft toiled, with glad reapers, before, 

And felt the great bounty of Heaven extended. 
Giving joy to the worker, and bread to the poor. 

Long ago, I remember, when thirsty and tiring, 
The harvesters came to the old maple shade, 

How they quaffed the pure water, so cool and inspiring, 
That gushed from the fountain that Nature had made. 

And I think of the orchard, and the apples that yellowed. 
Half hidden by leaves in the' " big early tree : " 

Ah, the apples, how luscious, when ripened and mellowed, 
Then dropped in the clover for sisters and me ! 






OUB FAVORITES. 

Old home of my youth, so humble, so cherished, 
Thy haUowfed memory cheers me to-day ; 

When all other thoughts of the past shall have perished, 
Remembrance of thee shall illumine my way. 

Sweet home in Ohio, now farewell for ever ! 

I've wandered afar from thy dear cottage door ; 
m visit thee, love thee ; but never, oh, never, 

WiU thy charms, or my childhood, return any more. 





MY MOTHER. 

The feast was o'er. Now brimming wine, 
In lordly cup, was seen to shine 

Bef oi-e each eager guest ; 
And silence filled the crowded hall 
As deep as when the herald's caU 

Thrills in the loyal breast. 

Then up arose the noble host, 

And, smiling, cried : "A toast ! a toast ! 

To all our ladies fair ; 
Here, before aU, I pledge the name 
Of Stanton's proud and beauteous dame, 

The Lady Gundamere." 

Quick to his feet each gallant sprang, 
And joyous was the shout that rang. 

As Stanley gave the word ; 
And every cup was raised on high. 
Nor ceased the loud and gladsome cry 

Tin Stanley's voice was heard. 

" Enough, enough," he, smUiag, said. 
And lowly bent his haughty head ; 

" That aU may have their due. 
Now each in turn must play his part 
And pledge the lady of his heart. 

Like a gallant knight and true." 






MY MOTHER. 

Then, one by one, each guest sprang up, 
And drained in turn the brimming cup, 

And named the loved one's name ; 
And each, as hand on high he raised. 
His lady's grace and beauty praised, 

Her constancy and fame. 

'Tis now St. Leon's turn to rise ; 

On him are fixed these countless eyes j 

A gaUant knight is he ; 
Envied by some, admired by all. 
Far famed in lady's bower and hall. 

The flower of chivalry. 

St. Leon raised his kindling eye, 
And held the sparkling cup on high : 

" I drink to one," he said, 
" Whose image never may depart, 
Deep graven on this grateful heart. 

Tin memory be dead ; 

" To one whose love for me shall last 
When Hghter passions long have past. 

So deep it is, and pure ; 
Whose love hath longer dwelt, I ween, 
Than any yet that pledged hath been 

By these brave knights before." 

Each guest upstarted at the word 
And laid a hand upon his sword 

With fury-flashing eye ; 
And Stanley said : " We crave the name, 
Proud knight, of this most peerless dame. 

Whose love you count so high." 

St. Leon paused, as if he would 

Not breathe her name in careless mood 

Thus hghtly to another ; 
Then bent his noble head, as though 
To give that word the reverence due, 

And gently said, " My mother." 







OUB FAVORITES. 



THE CREEDS OF THE BELLS. 

How sweet the chime of the Sabbath bells ! 
Each one its creed in music tells, 
In tones that float upon the air 
As soft as song, as pure as prayer ; 
And I will put in simple rhyme 
The language of the golden chime ; 
My happy heart with rapture swells 
Eesponsive to the beUs, sweet bells ! 

" In deeds of love excel ! excel ! " 
Chimed out from ivied towers a beU ; 
" This is the church not built on sands, 
Emblem of one not built with hands ; 
Its forms and sacred rites revere ; 
Come worship here ! Come worship here ! 
In rituals and faith excel ! " 
Chimed out the Episcopalian beU, 

" Oh, heed the ancient landmarks well ! " 
In solemn tones exclaimed a bell. 
" No progress made by mortal man 
Can change the just, eternal plan ; 
With God there can be nothing new ; 
Ignore the false, embrace the true, 
WhUe all is well ! is well ! is well ! " 
Pealed out the good old Dutch church "beU. 

" Ye purifying waters, swell ! " 
In mellow tones rang out a beU ; 
" Though faith alone in Christ can save, 
Man must be plunged beneath the wave, 
To show the world unfaltering faith 
In what the Sacred Scriptures saith : 
Oh, swell ! ye rising waters, swell ! " 
Pealed out the clear-toned Baptist beU. 







TEE CREEDS OF THE BELLS. 

" Not faith alone, but works as well, 
Must test the soul ! " said a soft bell ; 
" Come here and cast aside your load, 
And work your way along the road, 
With faith in Grod, and faith in man, 
And hope in Christ where hope began ; 
Do well ! do weU ! do well ! do weU ! " 
Eang out the Unitarian beU. 

" Farewell ! farewell ! base world, forever ! " 
In touching tones exclaimed a beU. 
" Life is a boon to mortals given 
To fit the soul for bhss in heaven ; 
Do not invoke the avenging rod. 
Come here and learn the way to Grod ! 
Say to the world. Farewell ! farewell ! " 
Pealed forth the Presbyterian bell. 

" To aU the truth we tell ! we teU ! " 
Shouted in ecstasies a beU ; 
" Come, all ye weary wanderers, see ! 
Our Lord has made salvation free ! 
Repent, believe, have faith, and then 
Be saved, and praise the Lord, Amen ! 
Salvation's free, we teU ! we tell ! " 
Shouted the Methodistic beU. 

" In after hf e there is no heU ! " 
In raptures rang a cheerful beU ; 
" Look up to heaven this holy day, 
Where angels wait to lead the way ; 
There are no fires, no fiends to bHght 
The future hf e ; be just and right. 
No heU ! no heU ! no hell ! no heU ! " 
Rang out the Universalist beU. 

" The Pilgrim Fathers heeded well 
My cheerful voice," pealed forth a beU 






OUB FAVORITES. 

" No fetters here to clog the soul ; 

No abitrary creeds control 

The free heart and progressive mind, 

That leave the dusty path behind. 

Speed well ! speed weU ! speed well ! speed weU ! " 

Pealed forth the Independent beU. 

"No pope, no pope, to doom to heU ! " 
The Protestant rang out a beU ; 
" Great Luther left his fiery zeal 
Within the hearts that truly feel 
That loyalty to God will be 
The fealty that makes men free. 
No images where incense f eU ! " 
Rang out old Martin Luther's beU. 

"AH hail, ye saints in heaven that dweU 
Close by the cross ! " exclaimed a beU ; 
" Lean o'er the battlements of bhss, 
And deign to bless a world like this ;' 
Let mortals kneel before this shrine — 
Adore the water and the wine ! 
All hail, ye saints, the chorus swell ! " 
Chimed in the Roman CathoHc beU. 

" Ye workers who have toiled so well 

To save the race ! " said a sweet beU ; 

" With pledge, and badge, and banner, come, 

Each brave heart beatiag hke a drum ; 

Be royal men of noble deeds, 

For love is hoHer than creeds ; 

Drink from the well, the well, the well ! " 

In rapture rang the Temperance beH 







^.•■ 







AN AUGUST RUNE. 

Tones of turquoise, bronze and gray — 
Tawny meadow and winds astray — • 
Lambent night and slumb'rous day, 
August comes dreamily by ; 
Mystical petals of white and red, 
Floating where bloomed the roses dead, 
(After love's end meet is slumber's bed — 
Lo ! poppies gleam out from the rye.) 

Fitful chants from the hidden thrush — 

(Magic rifts in the dreamy hush) — 

Gorse's gold, and lilies' flush, 

August comes tranquilly by ; 

Questioning heart of mine, though thou see 

Summer depart, yet again to thee 

foy shall return, jocund, blithesome, free, 

Unfreighted by plaint or by sigh ! 

Helen Chase. 




CABI2^ PHILOSOPHY. 





CABIN PHILOSOPHY. 

Jes' tiim de back log ober, dar — an' pull your stools up nigber, 
An' wateb dat 'possum cookin' in de skillet by de fire : 
Lemme spread my legs out on de bricks to make my f eelin's fl^ow, 
An' I'U grin' you out a fac' or two, to take befo' you go. 

Now, in dese busy wuMn' days, day's changed de Scripter fashions, 
An' you needn't look to mirakuls to furnish ybu wid rations : 
Now, when you's wantin' loaves o' bread, you got to go an' fetch 'em, 
An' ef you's wantin' fishes, you mus' dig your wums an' ketch 'em. 
For you kin put it down as sartin dat de time is long gone by, 
When sassages an' taters use to rain fum out de sky ! 

Ef you think about it keerfuUy, and put it to the tes', 

You'U diskiver dat de safes' plan is gin'uUy de bes' ; 

Ef you stumble on a hornets'-nes' an' make de critters scatter. 

You need't stan' dar like a fool an' argerfy de matter ; 

An' when de yaUer fever comes an' settles all aroun', 

'Tis better dan de karanteen to shuffle out of town. 

Bar's heap o' dreadful music in de very fines' fiddle ; 
A ripe an' meUow apple may be rotten in de middle ; 
De wises' lookin' trabeler may be de bigges' fool ; 
Bar's a lot o' solid Mckin' in de hvimbles' kind o' mule ; 
De preacher ain't de hoHes' dat w'ars de meekes' look, 
An' does de loudes' bangin' on de Mver of de Book ! 

De people pays deir bigges' bills in buyin' lots an' lan's ; 
Dey scatter all deir picayunes aroun' de peanut stan's ; 
De twenties an' de fifties goes in payin' orf deir rents, 
But Heben an' de organ-grinder gits de copper cents. 
I nebber Ukes de cullud man dat thinks too much o' eaten ; 
Dat frohcs froo de wukin' days, and snoozes at de meetin' ; 
Dat jines de Temp'rance 'Ciety, an' keeps a gettin' tight. 
An' pidls his water-millions in de middle ob de night ! 





OUR FAVORITES. 

Dese milerterry nigger chaps, with muskets in deir han's, 

Perradin' froo de city to de music ob de ban's, 

Had better drop deir guns an' go to marcbin' wid deir boes 

An' git an bonest bbbia' as dey cbop de cotton rows, 

Or de State may put 'em arter wbile to drilbn' in de ditcbes, 

Wid more'n a single stripe a-nmnin' across deir breeches. 

Well, you think dat doin' nuffin' 'taU is mighty sof an' nice, 

But it busted up de renters in de lubly paradise ! ~ 

You see, dey bofe was human beia's, jes' like me an' you, 

An' dey couldn't reggerlate deiselves wid not a thing to do ; 

Wid plenty wuk befo' 'em, an' a cotton crop to make, 

Dey'd nebber thofight o' loafin' 'roun' an chattin' wid de snake, 




OLD FAMILIAR FACES. 




CHAELES LAMB. 

I HAVE had playmates, I have had companions, 
In my days of childhood, in my joyful school days, 
All, aU are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have been laughing, I have been carousing, 
Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies, 
All, aH are gone, the old famiUar faces. 

I loved a love once, fairest among women ; 
Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her — 
All, aU. are gone, the old familiar faces. 

I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man ; 
Like an ingrate, I left my fi-iend abruptly ; 
Left him, to muse on the old famihar faces. 

Grhost-like I paced round the haunts of my childhood ; 
Earth seem'd a desert I was bound to traverse. 
Seeking to find the old familiar faces. 





HUNCHBACK JIM. 

Friend of my bosom, thou more tlian a brother, 
Why wert thou not born in my father's dwelling ? 
So might we talk of the old familiar faces — 

How some they have died, and some they have left me, 
And some are taken from me : all are departed ; 
All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. 




T 



HUNCHBACK JIM. 

When aU things seem quite against me, and I deem my life a 
curse; 

When, for fancied wrongs or real, thoughts of discontent I nurse ; 

Then I turn with softer feehngs to a memory far and dim. 

And again, through mist and shadow, stands before me Hunch- 
back Jim. 

Pale and ghostly, weak and ailing, never feeling free from pain, 

Oh ! how bitter were his sufferings, yet who heard him e'er com- 
plain? 

Though his sorrows grew around him, he was meek and patient 
still. 

Ever gentle in his troubles and resigned to Heaven's will. 

I could understand his trials, for he was my friend and mate, 
And we worked for years together, coming early, going late ; 
And he often would, whilst toUing, pause in pain to gasp for 

breath. 
Whilst his hands grew hot and fevered, and his face as pale as 

death. 

And when I turned round to hold him, and to cool his burning 

brow, 
" Thank you. Jack," he'd smile and murmur, " thank you. Jack, 

I'm better now ; " 
And while he stiU was speaking, he would stagger, fall, and faint — 
Oh ! what agony of suffering — yet not one word of complaint. 







OUB FAVORITES. 



He went working on in sickness, when h.e should have been ia 

bed, 
But he had a feeble mother who looked up to him for bread. 
And so on and on with patience, looking forward to the day 
Which should make an end to sorrow with the broken mould of 

clay. 

Fate condemned him to a city, far from pleasant grove and rill ; 
But he nursed, with mother's worship, flowers on liis window-sill ; 
And he held each mom communion, ia a language strangely 

sweet. 
With the little birds that fluttered, picking crumbs upon the 

street. 



He had never known the music of a wife's soft loving tone, 
Nor the clasp of baby-fingers he could fondly call his own ; 
But the children all around us used to gladly run to him, 
For they knew the loving-kindness of poor childless Hunchback 
Jim. 

But at length there came the morning when I missed him at his 

place ; 
On the bench his tools lay listless, motirning for the wonted face ; 
Shadowed by a dark foreboding, drearily the dayhght passed, 
Till uneasy, fearing, doubting, I could go to him at last. 

There he lay — ^his cheek grown hollow — on his narrow Httle bed. 
And my footsteps broke the stillness with a solemn ghostly 

tread; 
Yet he sweetly smiled upon me, and he tried to rise and speak, 
But his tongue could give no utterance, and he fell back faint and 

weak. 

Through the night the lamp burnt dimly, flick'ring with the throes 
of death. 

And I sat and grieved, and watched him, in the dull smoke of my 
breath 

When his voice the silence startled : " It's a snuling land," he said 

"And she's coming! Yes, she's coming! Jack, it's Freedom- 
she's ahead ! " 






GOma A WAT. 

Sure, no purer life did Heaven ever summon unto rest ; 

Patience, faith, and sweet contentment dwelt within that gentle 

breast ; 
Soaring happy with the angels, do I love to think of him. 
And I always feel the better for my thoughts of Hunchback Jim. 




I 



GOING AWAY. 

THOMAS FROST. 



So youVe come here to ask me for Susie — don't stand there 

a-hangin' your head ; 
Leave the shame for them chaps as goes eourtin' and ne'er has a 

penny to wed. 
You've an eye on the duties of life, John ; you're earnest, God- 

fearin' and true. 
And I can't say as Susie's been f oohsh in givin' her heart up to 

you. 

Since harvest I've knowd what was comin' ; I'm gi'ay, but my eye- 
sight is fair, 

And I've seen quite a bit of your aetin', at times when you least 
was aware ; 

I have seen how she'd blush at your footstep, like her mother at 
mine, long ago, 

When the whole world of hope lay afore me — ^my world, that's 
now buried in snow. 



And I'd made up my mind, John, to tell you, as I've no objections 
to bring, 

For the Book says it's nat'ral for children to leave the old home 
and to cling 

To the new ties as crops up around 'em — ^it's a draught we must 
all swaUer down ; 

So I wish you good luck. Yes, I'm hoarse, boy ; caught cold driv- 
ing in from the town. 







OUB FAVORITES. 

Shut the door — bring that cheer to the chimley — the storm's pretty 

heavy to-night; 
I was thinMn' just now of a Christmas when the snow lay as heavy 

and white 
On the fields and the pond and the bushes — over aU 'cept one sol- 

it'ry spot 
"Where the sexton had worked since the dayhght — our family burial 

plot. 

'Twas a poor kind of Christmas for me, boy, I came from the 

church-yard that day 
With a heart just as dead as that dear one we'd left 'neath the 

cover of clay ; 
And I hoped and I prayed that the Master would soon break my 

hfe's heavy chain. 
And open the gateway of heaven, and give me my loved one again. 

That eveniii' we sat, me and Susie, and whispered of her we had lost, 
While the firelight got lower and lower, and the snow on the 

winders was tossed, 
And the wind, that seemed full of our trouble, moaned over the 

desolate farm, 
Untn — weU, worn out with my sorrow — I dropped off, her head 

on my arm. 

When I woke it was daylight and clearin', and Susie was singin' 

so gay 
The song of the " Old Oaken Bucket," that mother would hum all 

the day ; 
The kitchen was cozy and tidy — the teapot a puf&n' like mad ; 
The shells all peeled off o' my eggs, too — an old-fashioned way 

mother had. 

And, bless her, she wore mother's apron ; to this day, though, she 

ha'n't no idea 
That I saw her a-usin' that apron to wipe off a poor httle tear. 
As she stood in the light of that winder every line of her face and 

her hair 
Was a joy of the past acted over — 'twas her mother, not Susie, 

stood there ! 




^ 





-^ 



THE SNOW STORM. 




Her mother, when I was like you, John, the wide world around 

me in bloom, 
Then I knew that while I had been sleepin' her soul had come 

into this room 
With a message from God to our Susie — a plan to reheve all my pain ; 
For my heart could not break with its sorrow while I lived my 

hfe over again. 

She has growed more and more like her mother, in face and in 

voice and in ways, 
A sweet bit o' gladness and simshine from out of my happiest days. 
I have watched her like misers their treasure ; but to His holy will 

I must bow. 
And — ^bless me, what's this ? I am faint, John — I've not felt my 

loss until now ! 

So you've come here to ask me for Susie ; well, boy, you're Grod- 

f earin' and true, 
And I can't say she's been over hasty in givin' her heart up to you. 
It is hard, but the Book says it's nat'ral, so I'U try to live sehlsh- 

ness down ; ^ 

Dear me; why, how hoarse I'm gettin' — caught cold drivin' in 

from the town ! 



1 




THE SNOW STORM. 

RALPH WALDO EMERSON. 

Announced by all the trumpets of the sky, 
Anives the snow ; and, driving o'er the fields, 
Seems nowhere to alight ; the whited air 
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven, 
And veils the farm-house at the garden's end. 
The sled and traveller stopped, the courier's feet 
Delayed, all friends shut out, the housemates sit 
Around the radiant fire-place, inclosed 
In a tumultuous privacy of storm. 

Come, see the north wind's masonry ! 
Out of an unseen quarry, evermore 
Furnished with tile, the fierce artificer 
Curves his white bastions with projected roof 





OUB FAVORITES. 

Eound every windward stake, or tree, or door ; 
Speeding, the myriad-handed, his wild work 
So fanciful, so savage ; naught cares he 
For number or proportion. Mockingly, 
On coop or kennel he hangs Parian wreaths ; 
A swan-Kke form invests the hidded thorn ; 
Fills up the farmer's lane from wall to wall, 
Maugre the farmer's sighs ; and at the gate 
A tapering turret o'ertops the work. 
And when his hours are numbered, and the world 
Is aU his own, retiring as he were not. 
Leaves, when the sun appears, astonished Art 
To mimic in slow structures, stone by stone. 
Built in an age, the mad wind's night- work. 
The froUc architecture of the snow. 





THE SNOW. 

Oh, the snow, the beautiful snow. 
Filling the sky and earth below ; 
Over the house-tops, over the street. 
Over the heads of the people you meet ; 
Dancing, flirting, skimming along ; 
Beautiful snow ! it cannot do wrong, 
Flying to kiss a fair lady's cheek. 
Clinging to Mps in a frohcsome freak, 
Beautiful snow from the heaven above. 
Pure as an angel, gentie as love ! 

Oh, the snow, the beautiful snow. 

How the flakes gather and laugh as they go 

Whirling about in the maddening fun. 

It plays in its glee with every one. 

Chasing, laughing, hurrying by ; 

It lights on the face, and it sparkles the eye 

And the dogs, with a bark and a bound, 

Snap at the crystals that eddy around : 

The town is alive, and its heart in a glow, 

To welcome the coming of beautiful snow. 





THE SNOW. 

How wildly the crowd goes swaying along, 

Hailing each other with humor and song ! 

How the gay sledges, like meteors, pass by. 

Bright for the moment, then lost to the eye — 

Ringing, swinging, dashing they go, 

Over the emst of the beautiful snow ; 

Snow so pure when it falls from the sky, 

To be trampled in mud by the crowd rushing by, 

To be trampled and tracked by the thousands of feet, 

Tin it blends with the filth in the horrible street. 




Once I was pure as the snow — ^but I fell ! 
Fell, hke the snow-flakes, from heaven to hell ; 
Fell, to be trampled as filth in the street ; 
Fell, to be scoffed, to be spit on and beat, 
Pleading, cursing, dreading to die. 
Selling my soul to whoever would buy, 
Deahng in shame for a morsel of bread. 
Hating the Uving, and fearing the dead ; 
Merciful God ! have I fallen so low ? 
And yet I was once hke the beautiful snow ! 




Once I was fair as the beautiful snow. 

With an eye hke a crystal, a heart like its glow ; 

Once I was loved for my innocent grace, 

Flattered and sought for the charms of my face ! 

Father, mother, sisters, all, 

God and myself, I've lost by my fall ; 

The veriest wretch that goes shivering by, 

"Will make a wide swoop lest I wander too nigh ; 

For all that is on, or above me, I know. 

There is nothing that's pure as the beautiful snow. 

How strange it should be that this beautiful snow 

Should fall on a sinner with nowhere to go ! 

How strange it should be, when the night comes again, 

If the snow and the ice struck my desperate brain, 

Fainting, freezing, dying alone. 

Too wicked for prayer, too weak for a moan 





OUB FAVORITES. 

To be heard in the streets of the crazy town, 
Gone mad in the joy of the snow coming down ; 
To be, and so die, in my terrible woe, 
With a bed and a shroud of the beautiful snow. 





YOUR HOUSE. 

Be true to yourself at the start, young man. 

Be true to yourself and God ; 
Ere you build your house mark well the spot, 
Test well the ground, and build you not 

On the sand or the shaking sod. 

Dig, dig the foundation deep, young man. 

Plant firmly the outer waU ; 
Let the props be strong, and the roof be high. 
Like an open turret toward the sky. 

Through which heavenly dews may fall. 

Let this be the room of the soul, young man. 

When shadows shall herald care, 
A. chamber with never a roof or thatch 
To hinder the Ught, or door or latch 

To shut ia the spirit's prayer. 

Build slow and sure ; 'tis for life, young man — 

A life that outlives the breath ; 
For who shall gainsay the Holy Word ? 
" Their works do foUow them," saith the Lord, 

" Therein there is no death." 

Build deep, and high, and broad, young man. 

As the needful case demands ; 
Let your title-deeds be clear and bright, 
TUl you enter your claim to the Lord of Light, 

For the " House not made with hands." 





XJNRKSX. 



" I stood to-day within my lowly door, 
And heard my blue sea breaking on the 

shore ; 
A lady, rich and beautiful, whirled by 
In her low, velvet carriage, and a sigh 
L,eaped upward from my aching heart : 

'Ah, me ! 
That I as rich and beautiful might be ! ' 
And then my husband's smile broke my 

unrest. 
My child's red lips were pressed against 

my breast. 
And their dear love, my home, and my 

blue sea 
Are quite enough for my true heart — and 

me." 

II. 

"I saw a woman in her doorway stand 
Beside her husband : while his toil-rough 

band 
Upon her shoulder he had kindly laid ; 
I am not selfish — yet I am afraid. 
As I whirled by in costly silk and lace ; 
I envied her that glad, contented face ; 
Yea, envied her, with burning, fierce 

unrest. 
That husband's love, those babe-lips at 

her breast ! 
Then I looked out across the glad blue 
sea, 

And smiled — so none might dare 
to pity me." 
«. 
■ Ella Higginson. 




UNFINISHED STILL. 



UNFINISHED STILL. 

A baby's boot and a skein of wool 

Faded, and soiled and soft ; 
Odd things, you say, and no doubt you're right, 
Eound a seaman's neck this stormy night, 

Up in the yards aloft. 

Most hke it's f oUy ; but, mate, look here : 

When first I went to sea, 
A woman stood on the far-off strand, 
"With a wedding-ring on the small, soft hand. 

Which clung so close to me. 

My wife — Grod bless her ! The day before, 

She sat beside my foot ; 
And the sunlight kissed her yellow hair. 
And the dainty fingers, deft and fair, 

Knitted a baby's boot. 

The voyage was over ; I came ashore ; 

What, think you, found I there ? 
A grave the daisies had sprinkled white, 
A cottage empty and dark as night. 

And this beside the chair. 

The little boot, 'twas unfinished stiU ; 

The tangled skein lay near ; 
But the knitter had gone away to rest, 
With the babe asleep on her quiet breast, 

Down in the church-yard di'ear. 




T 



FAREWELL. 




Farewell ! — ^but whenever you welcome the hour 
That awakens the night-song of nurth in your bower. 
Then think of the friend who once welcomed it too. 
And forgot his own griefs to be happy with you. 





OUB FAVOBITES. 

His griefs may return, not a hope may remain 
Of tlie few that have brightened his pathway of pain ; 
But he ne'er will forget the short vision that threw 
Its enchantment around him, while lingering with you. 

And still on that evening, when pleasure fills up 

To the highest top sparkle each heart and each cup. 

Where'er my path lies, be it gloomy or bright, 

My soul, happy friends, shall be with you that night ; 

Shall join in your revels, your sports, and your wiles, 

And return to me beaming all o'er with your smiles — 

Too blest, if he tells me that, 'mid the gay cheer, 

Some kind voice had murmured, " I wish he were here ! " 

Let Fate do her worst ; there are rehcs of joy. 
Bright dreams of the past which she cannot destroy ; 
"Which come in the night-time of sorrow and care. 
And bring back the features that joy used to wear. 
Long, long be my heart with such memories filled ! 
Like the vase, in which roses have once been distilled — 
You may break, you may shatter the vase if you wiU, 
But the scent of the roses will hang round it stUl. 





MERCY TO ANIMALS. 

I WOULD not reckon on my hst of friends, 

(Though graced with polished manners and fine sense, 

Yet wanting sensibility,) the man 

Who needlessly sets his foot upon a worm. 

An inadvertent step may crush the snaU 

That crawls at evening in the public path ; 

But he that has humanity, forewarned, 

WiU tread aside, and let the reptile live. 

The creeping vermin, loathsome to the sight. 
And charged perhaps with venom, that intrudes, 
A visitor unwelcome, into scenes 
Sacred to neatness and repose, the alcove, 





CREATION. 

The chamber, or refectory, may die ; 

A necessary act incurs no blame. 

Not so wben, held within their proper bounds, 

And guiltless of offence, they range the air. 

Or take their pastime in the spacious field. 

There they are privileged ; and he that hunts 

Or harms them there is guilty of a wrong. 

Disturbs the economy of Nature's realm. 

Who, when she formed, designed them an abode, 

The sum is this : If man's convenience, health. 
Or safety interfere, his rights and claims 
Are paramoTint, and must extinguish theirs. 
Else they are all — ^the meanest things that are — 
As free to Kve, and to enjoy that hfe, 
As Grod was free to form them at the first, 
"Who in his sovereign wisdom, made them all. 
Ye, therefore, who love mercy, teach your sons 
To love it too. 





CREATION. 

The spacious firmament on high. 

With all the blue ethereal sky 

And spangled heavens, a shining frame. 

Their great Original proclaim. 

The unwearied Sim from day to day 

Does his Creator's power display, 

And pubhshes to every land 

The works of an Almighty Hand. 

Soon as the evening shades prevail. 
The moon takes up the wondrous tale. 
And nightly to the listening earth 
Repeats the story of her birth ; 
Whilst all the stars that round her bum, 
And all the planets in their turn. 
Confirm the tidings as they roU, 
And spread the truth from pole to pole. 





OUR FAVORITES. 

What, though in solemn silence aU 
Move round this dark terrestrial baU ? 
What, though nor real voice nor sound 
Amid their radiant orbs be found I 
In Reason's ear they aU rejoice. 
And utter forth a glorious voice ; 
Forever singing, as they shine, 
" The Hand that made us is Divine." 




A STRAY SUNBEAM. 

My story is a simple one, its moral I don't know ; 

'Tis not a tale of iacidents that happened long ago, 

But a simple Uttle story, put iuto simple rhyme. 

That is a temperance lesson just suited to this time. 

My hero was a wayward boy, big-hearted, full of fun, 

Of brightest braiu and iateUect, a widow's only son ; 

For his father was a soldier, who fell in our late strife, 

And left the widow with this babe to fight her way through 

life. 
Oh, how she fairly worshipped him and hved for him alone. 
And waited fondly for the day her darUng would be grown, 
And be her strong protector through her dechning years ; 
Yes, she worshipped him and watched him, filled alike with hopes 

and fears ; 
For no father Hved to govern the strong and wayward cMld, 
And as he grew up older, he also grew more wild. 
Till with drinking, gambling, everything that makes a downward 

start. 
He made her Uf e a torture and broke her loving heart. 
One night, with boon companions, his braiu was aU afire. 
When a message from a minister came speeding o'er the wire. 
He took it without thiokuig — ^he read it and was dumb ; 
'Twas short, but oh, how awful: "Your mother's dying. Come ! " 
How quickly sped he homeward, how crazed at every wait, 
Tin he reached that mother's bedside. Alas ! he came too late. 
For the gentle voice was stOled, and, folded on her breast 
Were the patient, loving hands that oft had laid her boy to rest. 




-^ 







A STRAY SUNBEAM. 

And the lips that kissed the clustering curls from off his boyhood's 

brow 
Were pale, and cold, and lifeless ; no words of love came now, 
And the heart that he had tortured, which every throb made 

sore. 
Was touched by death's cold, icy hand, to beat for him no more. 
He sank beside that bedside and smote his half -crazed brain, 
And cried : " Come back, my mother ! " Too late — ^he cried ia vain ; 
And his kisses brought no love-light fo-om the eyes that death had 

sealed. 
Then with choMng sobs of anguish down by her side he kneeled, 
And from his heart that just before had known no thought of care. 
There went up to his Maker this simple earnest prayer : 
'' O God, look down in pity upon a humbled one ; 
Forgive, O God, forgive me, for what my deeds have done ; 
And give, oh give, to aid me, thine arm, Mighty One, 
And let my mother's spirit watch o'er her wa;y'ward son." 
And did He hear that prayer ? Ah, yes. A newer hfe began. 
The headstrong, reckless youth was changed iato a noble man, 
Whose deeds were aU of kindness, of honor, and of love, 
Protected by that spirit that hovered up above, 
The spirit of his mother, whom death had claimed before, 
And who waited, patient waited, for him at heaven's door. 
And hquor did not touch the lips that fervent did appeal, 
When by that mother's corpse her son a suppUant did kneel. 
A year was gone, he stood beside the gi-ave of that loved one, 
And twihght came and darkhng clouds shut out the setting sun ; 
And he murmured " Mother, darling, I'm standing by thy gi-ave ; 
Thy spirit, ever near me, has made me strong and brave. 
Be near me, angel mother, protect me by thy love, 
And guide me ever onward, untU we meet above." 
He stopped, and lo, from through the gloom that marked the clos- 
ing day 
There came a Uttle sunbeam, a Httle silvery ray, 
And it lingered there a moment with a soft caressing air 
Upon the broad white forehead, 'neath the clustering curls of 

hair. 
Oh, do the souls of loved ones watch ? They do. Deny not this ; 
That httle straying sunbeam was his angel mother's kiss. 



1 






OUR FAVORITES. 



BUSTIN' THE TEMPERANCE MAN. 

Hoarsely demanding " Gimme a di-ink ! " 

He sidled up to the bar, 
And he handled his glass with the air of one 

Who had often before " been thar." 
And a terrible glance shot out of his eyes, 

And over his hearers ran. 
As he muttered, " I'm hangin' around the town 

Fer to bust that temp'rance man ! 

" iVe heerd he's a-comin' with singin' and sich, 

And prayin' and heaps of talk ; 
And allows he'U make all f eUers what driak 

Toe square to the temp'rance chalk. 
I reckon " — and he pulled out a knife 

That was two feet long or more, 
And he handled his pistols familiarly, 

While the crowd made a break for the door. 

The good man came, and his voice was kind, 

And his ways were meek and mild ; 
" But I'm goin' to bust him," the roarer said — 

" Jess wait tiU he gits me riled." 
Then he playfuUy felt of his pistol belt, 

And took up his place on the stage, 
And waited in wrath for the temperance man 

To further excite his rage. 

But the orator didn't ; he wasn't that sort, 

For he talked right straight to the heart, 
And somehow or other the roarer felt 

The trembling tear-drops start. 
And he thought of the wife who had loved him well. 

And the children that climbed his knee. 
And he said, as the terrible pictures were drawn, 

" He's got it kerrect — that's me ! " 






THE PRICE OF A DRINK. 



Then his thoughts went back to tlie years gone by 

Wlien his mother had kissed his brow, 
As she tearfully told of the evils of drink, 

And he made her a solemn vow, 
That he never should touch the poisonous cup 

Which had ruined so many before ; 
And the tears fell fast as he lowly said : 

" He's ketchin' me more and more ! " 




He loosened his hold on his pistols and knife, 

And covered his streaming eyes ; 
And though it was homely, his prayer went ujt — 

Straight up to the starUt skies. 
Then he signed his name to the temperance pledge, 

And holding it high, said he, 
" I came here to bust that temp'rance chap. 

But I reckon he's busted me." 




THE PRICE OF A DRINK. 

Five cents a glass, does any one think 
That that is reaUy the price of a drink ? 
Five cents a glass, some one might say, 
" Why ! that isn't very much to pay." 
The price of a drink, let him. decide 
Who has lost his courage and his pride. 
And who lies a grovelling heap of clay, 
Not far removed from a beast to-day. 
The price of a drink ? let that one tell 
Who sleeps to-night in a murderer's cell 
Honor and virtue, love and truth, 
All the glory of pride and youth. 
Hope of manhood, the wealth of fame, 
High ambition the noble aim ; 
These are the treasures thrown away 
As the price of a dt-ink from day to day. 





OUB FAVOBITES. 

" Five cents a glass ! " How Satan laughed, 
As o'er the bar the young man chaffed ; 
And before the morning the victim lay 
With his life-blood ebbing swiftly away ; 
And that was the price that he paid, alas, 
For the pleasure of taking a social glass. 
The price of a drink, if you want to know 
What some are willing to pay for it, go 
To that wretched hovel over there, 
With its dingy window, and broken stair, 
Where poverty dwells with its hungry brood, 
Wnd-eyed as demons for lack of food, 
Where innocent ones are thus accursed, 
To pay the price for another's thirst. 
Five cents a glass, oh ! if that were all. 
The sacrifice would indeed be small ; 
But the money's worth is the least amount 
You pay ; whoever wiU keep an account 
Will learn of the terrible waste and bhght 
That foUows that ruinous appetite. 
Five cents a glass, does any one think 
That that is really the price of a drink ? 




LADY CLARE. 




It was the time when lihes blow, 
And clouds are highest up in air, 

Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe 
To give his cousin, Lady Clare. 

I trow they did not part in scorn ; 

Lovers long betrothed were they ; 
They two will wed the morrow morn ; 
-God's blessing on the day ! 

" He does not love me for my birth, 
Nor for my lands so broad and fair ; 






LABT CLARE. 

He loves me for my own true worth, 
And that is well," said Lady Clare. 

In there came old Alice the nurse, 

Said, " Who was this that went from thee ? " 
" It was my cousin," said Lady Clare ; 

" To-morrow he weds with me." 

" Oh, God be thanked ! " said Alice the nurse, 
" That all comes round so just and fair : 

Lord Ronald is heir of aU your lands. 
And you are not the Lady Clare." 

"Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse ? " 
Said Lady Clare, " that ye speak so wild ? " 

"As God's above," said Alice the nurse, 
" I speak the truth ; you are my child. 

" The old Earl's daughter died at my breast ; 

I speak the truth, as I live by bread ! 
I bm-ied her hke my own sweet child, 

And put my child in her stead." 

" Falsely, falsely have ye done. 
Oh, mother," she said, " if this be true. 

To keep the best man under the sun 
So many years from his due." 

" Nay now, my child," said Alice the nurse, 

" But keep the secret for your life, 
And aU you have will be Lord Ronald's, 

When you are man and wife." 

" If I'm a beggar bom," she said, 
" I will speak out, for I dare not He. 

PuU off, pull off the brooch of gold, 
And fling the diamond necklace by." 

" Nay now, my child," said Ahce the nurse, 

" But keep the secret all ye can." 
She said, " Not so ; but I will know 

If there be any faith in man." 







OUB FAVOBITES. 

" Nay now, what faith ? " said Alice the nurse ; 

" The man will cleave unto his right." 
"And he shall have it," the lady replied, 

" Tho' I should die to-night." 

" Yet give one kiss to your mother dear ! 

Alas, my child ! I sinned for thee." 
" Oh mother, mother, mother," she said, 

" So strange it seems to me. 

" Yet here's a kiss for my mother dear. 

My mother dear, if this be so ; 
And lay your hand upon my head. 

And bless me, mother, ere I go." 

She clad herself in a russet gown. 

She was no longer Lady Clare ; 
She went by dale, and she went by down, 

With a single rose in her hair. 

The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had bought 

Leapt up from where she lay, 
Dropt her head in the maiden's hand. 

And followed her all the way. 

Down stept Lord Ronald from his tower : 
" O Lady Clare, you shame your worth ! 

Why come you drest hke a village maid, 
That are the flower of the earth ? " 

" If I come drest hke a vOlage maid, 

I am but as my fortunes are ; 
I am a beggar bom," she said, 

"And not the Lady Clare." 

" Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 

For I am yours in word and iu deed ; 
Play me no tricks," said Lord Ronald, 
" Yoiu- riddle is hard to read." 

Oh, and proudly stood she up ! 
Her heart within her did not fail ; 






MABRIED FOB LOVE. 

She looked into Lord Ronald's eyes, 
And told him aU her nurse's tale. 

He laughed a laugh of merry scorn ; 

He turned, and kissed her where she stood, 
" If you are not the heiress born, 

And I," said he, " the next in blood, 

" If you are not the heiress born, 
And I," said he, " the lawful heir. 

We two will wed to-morrow morn. 
And you shall stiU be Lady Clare." 





MARRIED FOR LOVE. 

" Yes, Jack Brown was a splendid fellow, 

But manied for love, you know j 
I remember the girl very well — 

Sweet little Kitty Duffau. 
Pretty, and loving, and good. 

And bright as a fairy elf, 
I was very much tempted indeed 

To marry Kitty myself. 

*' But her friends were all of them poor, 

And Kitty had not a cent ; 
And I knew I should never be 

"With '■ love in a cottage ' content. 
So Jack was the lucky wooer. 

Or unlucky — anyway 
You can see how shabby his coat, 

And his hair is turning gray. 

" But I'm told he thinks himself rich 
With Kitty and homely joys ; 

A cot far away out of town, 
FuU of noisy girls and boys. 





OUB FAVORITES. 




Poor Jack ! I'm sorry, and aU that, 

But of course he very well knew 
That fellows who marry for love 

Must drmk of the Mquor they brew." 

And the handsome Augustus smiled, 

His coat was in perfect style. 
And women still spoke of his grace, 

And gave him their sweetest smile. 
But he thought that night of Jack Brown, 

And said, " I'm growing old ; 
I think I must really marry 

Some beautiful girl with gold." 

Years passed, and the bachelor grew 

Tiresome, and stupid, and old ; 
He had not been able to find 

The beautiful girl with gold. 
Alone with his fancies he dwelt. 

Alone in. the crowded town, 
TUl one day he suddenly met 

The friend of his youth, Jack Brown. 

" Why, Gus ! " " Why, Jack ! " What a meeting ! 

Jack was so happy and gay ; 
The bachelor sighed for content, 

As he followed his friend away 
To the cot far out of town. 

Set deep in its orchard trees. 
Scented with lilies and roses. 

Cooled with the ocean breeze. 

" Why, Jack, what a beautiful place ! 

What did it cost ? " " Oh, it grew. 
There were only three rooms at first, 

Then soon the three were too few. 
So we added a room now and then ; 

And oft in the evening hours, 
Kitty, the children and I 

Planted the trees and fiowers. 






THANKSGIVING. 

"And they grew as the children grew 

(Jack, Harry, and Grace and Belle)." 
"And where are the youngsters now ? " 

"All happy and doing well. 
Jack went to Spain for our house, — 

His road is level and clear, — 
And Harry's a lawyer in town, 

Making three thousand a year. 

"And Grace and BeUe are weU married, — 

They married for love, as is best ; 
But often our birdies come back 

To visit the dear home nest. 
So my sweet wife Kitty and I 

From labor and care may cease ; 
We have enough, and age can bring 

Nothing but love and peace." 

But over and over again 

The bachelor thought that night, 
" Home, and wife, and children ! 

Jack Brown was, after all, right. 
Oh ! if in the days of my youth 

I had honestly loved and wed ! 
For now when I'm old there's no one eai*es 

Whether I'm living or dead." 





THANKSGIVING. 

Amid the groanings of the dying year 

A sudden stillness falls upon the air, 

As if time held his breath and paused in sad and silent 

contemplation ; 
Nature is wrapped in solitude, as in a pall. 
Hushed is the song of merry woodland birds ; 
The rills but faintly murmur as they flow, 
The forest trees have dropped their crown 
Of scarlet, gold and russet brown, 






OUB FAVORITES. 

And now they stand, like sentinels tmplumed, 

To see their sire, the year, entombed ; 

The sere and withered leaves unrustled lie — 

No passing breeze to voice their monmiag sigh 

For the bright, transient glow that fled 

When fell from heaven the fatal autumn frosts j 

The barren earth is ready for the robe 

That hides alike her beauty and decay. 

Ere winter comes to break this perfect calm 

With the wild storms that mark his cruel sway, 

The earth and sea and air await man's voice 

To lead their song of love and gratitude. 

Raise high the anthem, oh ! ye hills, and you, 

Ye mountaia-tops, reply with joyous shouts, 

As from the temples reared by human hands 

Now mouldered back to common dust. 

By holy prayer and praise so consecrate, 

That sunbeams fallen aslant upon the floor 

Seem golden pathways leading to the skies, 

Ascends this hymn of loving thankfulness : 

" Praise God, who blest and brought us to this hour. 

Praise Him that plenty crowns our Harvest Home, 

Praise Him that by the fulness of His love 

Grim death hath walked with conscious steps and slow 

Amid the accustomed haunts of men. 

Praise Him that His kind hand hath kept aU plagues. 

And wasting sickness, and distress of war 

From this our weU-beloved and happy land.'" 

The circling echoes die upon the air. 

All heads are bowed, and words of benediction fall 

From Him whose trembling hands the bread of life 

Hath broke, since these, who now in manly grace 

Before Him stand, laughed in their childish glee. 

As, dripping with the consecrated flood, 

He laid His hand in blessing on their heads, 

With kindly words and parting clasp, each turns 

From friend and neighbor on this day of days. 

For sire and dame have called the children home 

To the dear spot that gave them birth, 







THANKSGIVING. 

Around one hearth, the hearts whose warm life- stream 

Forth from the self -same fountain glowed ; 

Within the ruddy glow from cheerful fire 

Which gleams out on the frosty air, and teUs 

Of joys and comforts boimteous and rich, 

Prepared to crown this glad Thanksgiving Day. 

Here baskets heaped with luscious fruits, and there 

The sparkling cider brims the generous cup 

Within the hearth-nook, stored by gTandma's care ; 

The nuts for little ones to crack, as round 

The ring flies joke, and song, and merry tale. 

And spicy odoi"S rise and mingle with 

The genial warmth that glows and thriUs 

Each life-drop in its course to rvm more swift, 

The welcome summons comes, " Partake," and soon 

Each guest is placed beside the generous feast. 

The gray-haired sire sits in the place where he 

The honor of his house maintained when two 

Made all the household band, though years have fled, 

And many winters turned his locks to snow, 

He still presides with courteous ease and grace. 

And she who crowns his life with joy, and shares 

Alike his blessings and his cares, as they 

The rugged path of life together walk. 

Smiles on the scene, as if no hour of grief 

Had marred her girhsh dream of wedded bUss ; 

"All, aU are here, who hold each other dear." 

Where other eyes behold an empty space. 

To her the place is filled with unseen guests. 

Whose presence brings such peace and rest 

As falls upon the souls of those who look 

Up to the golden throne, where He who reigns 

In love and wisdom perfect guides and solves 

The chaos and the doubts of this, our world, 

And in His own divinely chosen hour 

Will turn our sorrow into joy. 

And fill our mouths with songs of praise. 






OVB FAVORITES. 



THANKS. 




Thanks in old age — ^thanks ere I go, 

For health, the midday sun, the impalpable air — for life, mere life. 

For precious ever-lingering memories (of you, my mother dear — 
you, father — ^you, brothers, sisters, friends), 

For all my days — ^not those of peace alone — the days of war the 
same, 

For gentle words, caresses, gifts from foreign lands. 

For shelter, wine and meat — for sweet appreciation, 

(You distant, dim unknown — or young or old — countless, unspeci- 
fied, readers belov'd. 

We never met, and ne'er shall meet — and yet our souls embrace, 
long, close and long ;) 

For beings, groups, love, deeds, words, books — for colors, forms. 

For aU the brave strong men — devoted, hardy men — who've for- 
ward sprung in freedom's help, all years, aU lands. 

For braver, stronger, more devoted men — (a special laurel ere I go, 
to life's war's chosen ones, 

The cannoneers of song and thought — the great artillerists — the 
foremost leaders, captains of the soul:) 

As soldier from an ended war retum'd — As traveller out of 
myriads, to the long procession retrospective, 

Thanks — ^joyful thanks ! — a soldier's, traveller's thanks. 



ALONE. 




I MISS you, my darhng, my darling, 

The embers burn low on the hearth ; 
And still is the stir of the household. 

And hushed is the voice of its mirth ; 
The raiu plashes fast on the terrace. 

The wiad past the lattices moan. 
The midnight chimes out from the minster, 

And I am alone. 





THE OLD ABM CHAIB. 



I want you, my darling, my darling ; 

I am tired with care and with fret ; 
I would nestle in sUenee beside you, 

And all but your presence forget. 
In the hush of the happiness given 

To those who through trusting have grown 
To the fulness of love in contentment ; 

But I am alone. 

I caU you, my darling, my darhng ! 

My voice echoes back on the heari ; 
I stretch my arms to you in longing. 

And, lo ! they fall empty apart ; 
I whisper the sweet words you taught me. 

The words that we only have known. 
Till the blank of the dumb air is bitter. 

For I am alone. 

I need you, my darling, my darling ! 

With its yearning my very heart aches ; 
The load that divides us weighs harder ; 

I shrink from the jar that it makes. 
Old sorrows rise up to beset me ; 

Old doubts make my spirit their own, 
Oh, come through the darkness and save me, 

For I am alone. 





THE OLD ARM CHAIR. 

I LOVE it ! I love it ! and who shall dare 

To chide me for loving that old arm chair ? 

I've treasured it long as a sainted prize, 

I've bedewed it with tears and embalmed it with sighs, 

'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart 

Not a tie will break, not a link will start. 

Would you know the speU ? A mother sat there ! 

And a sacred thing is that old arm chair. 





OUR FAVORITES. 

In childhood's hour I Hngered near 

That hallowed seat with a listening ear, 

To the gentle words that mother would give," 

To fit me to die, and teach me to hve. 

She told me shame would never betide, 

With truth for my creed and God for my guide ; 

She taught me to lisp my earhest pi-ayer, 

As I knelt beside that old arm ehau*. 

I sat and I watched her many a day 

When her eye grew dim, and her locks were gray, 

And I almost worshipped her when she smiled 

And tm'ned from her Bible to bless her child : 

Years roUed on, but the last one sped, 

My idol was shattered, my earth-star fled ! 

I felt how much the heart can bear. 

When I saw her die in that old arm chair. 

'Tis past ! 'tis past ! but I gaze on it now 
With quivering lip and throbbing brow ; 
'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died. 
And memory still flows with the lava tide. 
Say it is foUy, and deem me weak. 
As the scalding drops start down my cheek ; 
But I love it ! I love it ! and cannot tear 
My soul from my mothei-'s old arm chair ! 





WE ARE NOT ALWAYS GLAD WHEN WE SMILE. 

J. W. RILEY. 

We are not always glad when we smile, 

For the heart in a tempest of pain 
May Uve in the guise of a laugh in the eyes, 

As the rainbow may live in the rain ; 
And the stormless night of our woe 

May hang out a radiant star, 
Whose light in the sky of distress is a lie 

As black as the thunder clouds are. 






OLD TIMES. 

We are not always glad when we smile, 

For the world is so fickle and gay, 
That our doubts and our fears, and our griefs and oiu- 
teai'S, 

Are laughingly hidden away ; 
And the touch of a frivolous hand 

May oftener wound than caress, 
And the kisses that drip from the reveller's hp 

May oftener blister than bless. 

We are not always glad when we smUe, 

But the conscience is quick to record 
That the sorrow and the sin we are holding within 

Is pain in the sight of the Lord ; 
Yet ever — O ever till pride 

And pretence shall cease to revile. 
The inner recess of the heart must confess 

We are not always glad when we smile. 



OLD TIMES. 




WILLIAJH G. EGGLESTON. 

How I wish I had lived when creation 

Knew nothing of sin nor of woe, 
When each man was in life's highest station, 

And no one was above nor below ; 
When the world had a roseate glow 

And customs and fashions were new — 
Then the earth was an Eden — But no ; 

Old times were too good to be true. 

In old times no foreign migration 
Turned poHtical cakes into dough ; 

No man had a wife's poor relation 
To take in pecuniary tow ; 





OUB FAVORITES. 

Then every man hoed his own row, 

And hfe had a leaf -tinted hue, 
For each mortal was happy — But no ; 

Old times were too good to be true. 

Time was when a nightly libation 

To Bacchus and Pan was " the go," 
When the cerebral exacerbation 

"Was yet undiscovered, although 
Men surely should reap what they sow. 

Then a pauper a princess could woo, 
And Uve with her parents — But no ; 

Old times were too good to be true. 

In old times some sHght deviation 

From the right didn't lay a man low, 
And a sinner's eternal salvation 

Could be bought for a chapel or so. 
Then men didn't go to and fro, 

TeUing other folks what they should do ; 
Each minded his business — But no ; 

Old times were too good to be tine. 

ENVOI. 

The worry, the sad tribulation 

Of the present is past computation. 

Once the question was " What do you know ? " 

But now 'tis " How much do you owe ? " 

Shall we rub out ? Begin aU anew ? — 

Old times were too good to be true. 







Flickering, weird, in that dim place 
Gleams my dark-eyed pallid face 
Oh, — and what if I should see 
Deathshead grinning over me ? — 
Or a white ghost, fiery-eyed, 
Leaning dreadful at my side ? 
Spirits of All Halloween, 
Let my true love now be seen. 

Heaven ! (and down the garret stair 
Rolls the apple.) What is there ? 
Phantom shadows change and swim, 
Ah, the lovely visage dim ! 
Glistening eyes and lips apart, — 
Fades the picture. Ah, my heart ! 
Spirits of All Halloween, 
Have I then my true love seen ? 




OUR OWN. 



AIN'T HE CUTE? 

Arrayed in snow-white pants and vest 
And other raiment fair to view, 
I stood before my sweetheart Sue, — 

The charming creature I love best. 

" Tell me, and does my costiune suit ? " 
I asked that apple of my eye. 
And then the charmer made reply — 

" Oh, yes, you do look awful cute ! " 

Althongh I frequently had heard 
My sweetheart vent her pleasure so, 
I must confess I did not know 

The meaning of that favorite word. 

But presently at window side 

We stood, and watched the passing throng, 
And soon a donkey passed along, 

With ears like sails extending wide. 

And gazing at the doleful brute 
My sweetheart gave a merry cry, — 
I quote her language with a sigh, — 

" O Charlie, ain't he awful cute ? " 





OUR OWN. 

If I had known in the morning 
How wearily all the day 

The words unkind 

Would trouble my mind 

I said when you went away ; 

I had been more careful, darling, 

Nor given you needless pain ; 

But we vex " our own " 

With look and tone 
We may never take back again. 





OUB FAVORITES. 

For though in the quiet evening 
You may give us the Mss of peace, 

Yet it might be 

That never for me 
The pain of the heart should cease. 
How many go forth in the morning 
That never come home at night ! 

And hearts have broken 

For harsh words spoken 
That sorrow can ne'er set right ; 

"We have careful thoughts for the stranger, 
And smiles for the sometime guest ; 

But oft for " our own " 

The bitter tone, 
Though we love "our own" the best. 
Ah ! hps with the curve impatient ! 
Ah ! brow with that look of scorn ! 

'Twere a cruel fate 

"Were the night too late 
To undo the work of the mom. 





IN ANSWER. 

ROSE HARTWICK THORPE. 

" MADAJf , we miss the train at B ," 

" But can't you make it, sir ? " she gasped 
" Impossible ; it leaves at three. 

And we are due a quarter past." 
" Is there no way ? Oh, tell me then, 

Are you a Christian ? " "I am not." 
"And are there none among the men 

Who rxm the train ? " " No — I forgot — 
I think this f eUow over here. 

Oiling the engine, claims to be." 
She threw upon the engineer 

A fair face white with agony. 





IN ANSWER. 




"Are you a Christian ? " " Yes, I am." 

" Tiien, sir, won't you pray with, me, 
All the long way, that Grod will stay, 

That God will hold the train at B ? " 

" 'Twin do no good, it's due at three 

And " " Yes, but Grod can hold the train ; 

My dyiug child is calling me. 

And I must see her face again. 
Oh, won^t you pray ? " "I wiU," a nod 

Emphatic, as he takes his place. 
When Christians grasp the arm of God 
They grasp the power that rules the rod. 



Out from the station swept the train. 

On time, swept on past wood and lea ; 
The engiaeer, with cheeks aflame. 

Prayed, " O Lord, hold the traia at B- 
Then flung the throttle wide, and like 

Some giant monster of the plain. 
With panting sides and mighty strides. 

Past Mil and valley swept the train. 




A half, a minute, two are gained ; 

Along those burnished lines of steel. 
His glances leap, each nerve is strained. 

And still he prays with fervent zeal. 
Heart, hand and brain, with one accord. 

Work while his pray'r ascends to Heaven, 
" Just hold the train eight minutes. Lord, 

And rU make up the other seven." 

With rush and roar through meadow lands. 
Past cottage homes, and green hillsides. 

The panting thing obeys his hands. 
And speeds along with giant strides. 

They say an accident delayed 
The train a little while ; but He 

Who hstened while his children prayed. 
In answer, held the train at B . 





OUR FAVORITES. 



THE FISHING PARTY. 

WuNST we went a-flshing — ^me 
An' my Pa an' Ma — aU titiree, 
When there was a picnic, way 
Out to Haneh's woods, one day. 

An' there was a crick out there, 
"Where the fishes is, an' where 
Little boys 't ain't big and strong 
Better have their folks along. 

My Pa he jist fished an' fished ! 
An' my Ma she said she wished 
Me an' her was home ; an' Pa 
Said he wished so wors'n Ma. 

Pa said if you talk, er say 
Anythin', er sneeze, er play, 
Hain' no fish, aHve er dead, 
Everlgo' to bite, he said. 

Purt' nigh dark in town when we 
Got back home ; and Ma, says she, 
Now she'U have a fish fer shore ! — 
An' she buyed one at the store. 

Nen, at supper. Pa he won't 
Eat no fish, an' says he don't 
Like 'em. An' he pounded me 
When I choked !— Ma, didn't he ? 





FAMILY FINANCIERING. 

" They teU me yoii work for a doUar a day ; 
How is it you clothe your six boys on such pay ? " 

" I know you will think it conceited and queer, 
But I do it because I'm a good financier. 






BLUE JND GRAY. 



" There's Pete, John, Jim, and Joe, and William and Ned. 
A half dozen boys to be clothed up and fed. 

"And I buy for them all good, plain victuals to eat ; 
But clothing — I only buy clothing for Pete. 

"When Pete's clothes are too small for him to get on, 
My "wife makes 'em over and gives 'em to John. 

" When for John, who is ten, they have grown out of date, 
She just makes 'em over for Jim, who is eight. 

" When for Jim they've become too ragged to fix, 
She just makes 'em over for Joe, who is six. 

"And when little Joseph can wear 'em no more, 
She jiist makes 'em over for Bill, who is four. 

"And when for young BUI they no longer will do, 
She just makes 'em over for Ned, who is two. 

" So you see if I get enough clothing for Pete, 
The family is furnished with clothing complete." 

" But when Ned has got through with the clothing, and when 
He has thrown it aside — what do you do with it then ? 

" Why, once more we go round the circle complete, 
And begia to use it for patches for Pete." 



•t 



y 



BLUE AND GRAY. 

5IARIETTA LILLY SLAIGHT. 

On a lovely mom in April, 

In the year of Sixty-one, 
A startled cry ran through the land — 

Hostilities begun ! 
On Sumter's browj the Stars and Stripes, 







OUB FAVORITES. 

The nation's pride and boast, 
Had fallen ! and a brother's blood 

Been shed by rebel host. 
It rolled o'er hill and valley ! 

It echoed from each crag ! 
TlU three hundred thousand freemen 

Went forth to save their flag ! 
Full many a woman's heart grew sad, 

And sank in deep dismay, 
When she saw her loved ones going 

To the battles far away ; 
For well they knew that some brave hearts, 

So loyal, and so tme, 
Wonld soon be stilled forever, 

'Neath their shrouds of Union blue. 
'Twas duty called, and they obeyed — 

They knew their cause was just, 
So they yielded up their dear ones. 

For in Heaven they put their trust. 
Ah ! not alone were they in suffering. 

They, who struggled with the foe ; 
For the hearts they left behind them 

Bore a fearful weight of woe. 
In many a lowly cottage. 

In many a grander home, 
Fond hearts grew weary watching 

For the one who ne'er would come. 
Not only at the hearthstone 

Where the soldier boy so true. 
Went out for country's honor, 

Great things to dare and do — 
But other, anxious, loving hearts, 

As they kneeled down to pray. 
Remembered at the throne of grace. 

Their gallant Boys in Gray. 
TiU, from one common brotherhood, 

North, East, and South, and West, 
The prayer arose, — " Eternal King, 

Do what Thou deemest best." 






THE SLEEPING SENTINEL. 

And the God of Battles stretched His hand 

To stay the tide of blood, 
For a mighty wi-ong, which He'd condemned, 

Had perished in that flood. 
The strife is o'er, the victory ours, 

And the Stars and Stripes again 
O'er North and South triumphant wave, 

Cleansed of this blot — ^this stain. 
No soHd North, no soUd South, 

Let sectional strivings cease. 
Our brothers' blood was freely spilled, 

Let it be a bond of peace. 
In many a quiet church-yard. 

On many a battle-ground, 
Through our re-united country. 

These sleepers pale, are found. 
Question not, ye that stand above them, 

On which side did they fight ; 
Enough to know they perished 

For what they deemed was right. 
They're brothers now, Grod willed it so, 

And in the last great day, 
He will not ask them if, on earth. 

They wore the " Blue or Gray." 




THE SLEEPING SENTINEL. 



FRANCIS DE HAES JANVIER. 

[The incidents "woven into the following beautiful verses relate to William 
Scott, a young soldier from Vermont, who, while on duty as a sentinel at 
night, fell asleep, and, having been condemned to die, was pardoned by the 
President. They form a brief record of his Ufe at home and in the field, and 
of his glorious death in defence of the Union.] 

'TwAS in the sultry summer-time, as war's red records show, 
When patriot armies rose to meet, a fratricidal foe ; 
When from the North, and East, and West, like the upheaving sea, 
Swept forth Columbia's sons, to make our country truly free. 







OUR FAVORITES. 

Within a prison's dismal walls, where shadows veiled decay, 
In fetters, on a heap of straw, a youthful soldier lay ; 
Heart-broken, hopeless, and forlorn, with short and feverish breath, 
He waited but th' appointed hour to die a culprit's death. 

Yet, but a few brief weeks before, untroubled with a care. 
He roamed at wUl, and freely drew his native mountain air — 
Where sparkling streams leap mossy rocks, from many a wood- 
land font, 
And waving elms and grassy slopes give beauty to Vermont ; — 

Where, dwelling in a humble cot, a tiller of the soO, 
Encircled by a mother's love, he shared a father's toil — 
Till, borne upon the wailing winds, his suffering country's cry 
Fired his young heart with fervent zeal, for her to live or die. 

Then left he all : — a few fond tears, by firmness half concealed, 

A blessing, and a parting prayer, and he was in the field — 

The field of strife, whose dews are blood, whose breezes war's hot 

breath. 
Whose fruits are garnered in the grave, whose husbandman is Death ! 

Without a murmur he endured a service new and hard ; 

But, wearied with a toilsome march, it chanced one night, on 

guard. 
He sank, exhausted, at his post, and the gray morning f oimd 
His prostrate form — a sentinel asleep upon the ground ! 

So, in the silence of the night, aweary on the sod, 
Sank the disciples, watching near the suffering Son of God ; 
Yet Jesus, with compassion moved, beheld their heavy eyes, 
And, though betrayed to ruthless foes, forgiving, bade them rise ! 

But God is love — and finite minds can faintly comprehend 
How gentle Mercy, in His rule, may with stem Justice blend ; 
And this poor soldier, seized and bound, found none to justify. 
While war's inexorable law decreed that he must die. 




'Twas night. — In a secluded room, with measured tread and slow, 
A statesman of commanding mien paced gravely to and fro. 





THE SLEEPING SENTINEL. 



Oppressed, he pondered on a land by civil discord rent ; 
On brothers armed ia deadly strife : — ^it was the President ! 

The woes of thirty nuUions filled his burdened heart with grief ; 
Embattled hosts, on land and sea, acknowledged him their chief ; 
And yet, amid the din of war, he heard the plaintive cry 
Of that poor soldier, as he lay m prison, doomed to die ! 




'Twas morning. — On a tented field, and through the heated haze. 
Plashed back, fi-om hnes of burnished arms, the sun's effulgent 

blaze ; 
While, from a sombre prison-house, seen slowly to emerge, 
A sad procession, o'er the sward, moved to a muffled dirge. 

And in the midst, with faltering step, and pale and anxious face. 
In manacles, between two guards, a soldier had his place. 
A youth — ^led out to die ; — and yet it was not death, but shame. 
That smote his gallant heart with dread, and shook his manly 
frame! 

Still on, before the marshalled ranks, the train pursued its way 
Up to the designated spot, whereon a coffin lay — 
His coffin ! And, with reeling brain, despairing, desolate — 
He took his station by its side, abandoned to his fate ! 

Then came across his wavering sight strange pictures in the air : 
He saw his distant mountain home ; he saw his parents there ; 
He saw them bowed with hopeless grief, through fast declining 

years ; 
He saw a nameless grave ; and then, the vision closed — in tears ! 

Yet once agaia. In double file, advancing, then, he saw 
Twelve comrades, sternly set apart to execute the law — 
But saw no more : — ^his senses swam — deep darkness settled 

round — 
And, shuddering, he awaited now the fatal volley's sound ! 

Then suddenly was heard the noise of steeds and wheels ap- 
proach, — 
And, roUing through a cloud of dust, appeared a stately coach. 






OUB FAVOBITES. 



On, past the guards, and tlirough the field, its rapid course was 

bent, 
Till, halting, 'mid the lines was seen the nation's President ! 

He came to save that stricken soul, now waking from despair ; 
And from a thousand voices rose a shout which rent the air ! 
The pardoned soldier understood the tones of jubilee, 
And, bounding from his fetters, blessed the hand that made him 
free! 




'Twas Spring. — ^Within a verdant vale, where Warwick's crystal 

tide 
Eeflected o'er its peaceful breast, fair fields on either side : 
Where birds and flowers combine to cheer a sylvan solitude, 
Two threatening armies, face to face, in fierce defiance stood ! 

Two threatening armies ! One invoked by injured Liberty — 
Which bore above its patriot ranks the symbol of the Free ; 
And one, a rebel horde, beneath a flaimting flag of bars, 
A fragment, torn by traitorous hands fi'om Freedom's Stripes and 
Stai-s! 

A sudden burst of smoke and flame, from many a thundering gun. 
Proclaimed, along the echoing hills, the conflict had begun ; 
While shot and shell athwart the stream with fiendish fmy sped, 
To strew among tlie living lines the dying and the dead ! 

Then, louder than the roaring stonn, pealed forth the stern com- 
mand, 

" Charge ! soldiers, charge ! " and, at the word, with shouts, a fear- 
less band. 

Two hundred heroes from Vermont, rushed onward, through the 
flood. 

And upward, o'er the rising ground, they mai'ked their way in 
blood ! 

The smitten foe before them fled, in terror from his post — 
While, unsustarued, two hundi-ed stood, to battle with a host ! 
Then, turning, as the rallying ranks, with murderous fire replied, 
They bore the fallen o'er the field, and through the purple tide ! 






WHISPEBIN' BILL. 

The fallen ! And the first who fell in that unequal strife 
Was he whom Mercy sped to save when Justice claimed his lif< 
The pai'doned soldier ! And, while yet the conflict raged around- 
While yet his Mf e-blood ebbed away through every gaping wound- 
While yet his voice gi'ew tremulous, and death bedimmed his eye- 
He called his comrades to attest he had not feared to die ! 
And, in his last expu'ing breath, a prayer to Heaven was sent, 
That Grod, with His unfailing grace, would bless our President ! 





WHISPERIN' BILL. 

So you're taldn' the census, mister ? There's three of us Uvin' stiU, 
My wife, an' X, an' our only son, that folks call Whisperin' Bill ; 
But Bill couldn't tell ye his name, sir, an' so it's hardly worth givin', 
For ye see a bullet killed his miad, an' left his body livin'. 

Set down for a minute, mister ; ye see Bill was only fifteen 

At the time o' the war, an' as likely a boy as ever this world has 

seen ; 
An' what with the news of battles lost, the speeches an' all the 

noise, 
I guess eveiy farm in the neighborhood lost a part of its crop o' 

boys. 

'Twas harvest-time when Bill left home ; every stalk ia the fields o' 
rye 

Seemed to stand tip-top to see him off an' wave him a fond good- 
bye; 

His sweetheart was here with some other girls — the sassy little 
Miss! 

An' pretendin' she wanted to whisper 'n his ear, she gave him a 
rousiu' kiss. 

Oh, he was a handsome feller, an' tender an' brave an' smart, 
An' tho' he was bigger than I was, the boy had a woman's heart. 
I couldn't control my feeHn's, but I tried with all my might. 
An' his mother an' me stood a-cryin' till BiU was out o' sight. 






OVB FAVORITES. 



His mother she often told him when she knew he was goin' away, 
That God would take care o' him, maybe, if he didn't forgit to 

pray; 
An' on the bloodiest battle-fields, when bullets whizzed in the air, 
An' Bill was a-flghtin' desperit, he used to whisper a prayer. 

Oh, his comrades has often told me that Bill never flinched a bit, 
When every second a gap in the ranks told where a ball had hit. 
An' one night when the field was covered with the awful harvest 

o' war. 
They found my boy 'mongst the martyrs o' the cause he was 

fightin' for. 

His fingers were clutched in the dewy grass — oh, no, sir, he wasn't 

dead. 
But he lay sort of helpless an' crazy with a rifle-baU in his head ; 
An' if BUI had really died that night I'd give aU I've got worth 

givin'; 
For ye see the bullet had killed his mind an' left his body hvin'. 

An officer wrote an' told us how the boy had been hurt ia the 

fight. 
But he said that the doctors reckoned they could bring him round 

all right. 
An' then we heard from a neighbor, disabled at Malvern HiU, 
That he thought ia the coiirse of a week or so he'd be comiti' home 

with BiU. 



t 



We was that anxious t' see him we'd set up an' talk o' nights 

Till the break o' day had dimmed the stars an' put out the north- 
em lights ; 

We waited an' watched for a month or more, an' the Summer was 
nearly past. 

When a letter came one day that said they'd started for home at 
last. 

I'U never forgit the day BiU came — 'twas harvest-time again — 
An' the air-bloom over the yellow fields was sweet with the scent o' 
the grain; 






t 




WmSPERIN' BILL. 



The door-yard was full o' the neighbors, who had come to share 

oiir joy, 
An' all of us sent up a mighty cheer at the sight o' that soldier boy. 

An' all of a sudden somebody said : " My God ! don't the boy know 

his mother ? " 
An' Bill stood a-whisperin', fearful like, an' starin' from one to 

another : 
" Don't be afraid, Bill," said he to himself, as he stood in his coat 

o' blue, 
" Why, God'U take care o' you. Bill ; God'U take care o' you." 

He seemed to be loadin' an' firin' a gun, an' to act like a man who 

hears 
The awf id roar o' the battle-field a-soundin' in his ears ; 
I saw that the buUet had touched his brain an' somehow made it 

bhnd, 
With the picture o' war before his eyes an' the fear o' death in his 

mind. 

I grasped his hand, an' says I to BiU, " Don't ye remember me ? 
I'm yer father — don't ye know me ? How frightened ye seem to 

be!" 
But the boy kep' a-whisperin' to himself, as if 'twas all he knew, 
" God'U take care o' you. Bill ; God'U take care o' you." 

He's never known us since that day, nor his sweetheart, an' never 

wiU: 
Father an' mother an' sweetheart are aU the same to BUI. 
An' many's the time his mother sets up the whole night through, 
An' smooths his head, and says : " Yes, BUI, God'U take care o' 

you." 

Unf ortunit ? Yes, but we can't complaiQ. It's a Uvin' death more 

sad 
When the body cUngs to a life o' shame an' the soul has gone to 

the bad; 
An' BiU is out o' the reach o' harm an' danger of every kind. 
We only take care of his body, but God takes care of his mind. 






OUB FAVORITES. 




PAT'S CONFEDERATE PIG. 

"When the war broke out Pat was fii'st to enlist 
He'd fight wid shillaly or fight wid his fist. 

Now Patrick was fresh from the otild, ould, sod, 
And carried a gun as he'd carry a hod. 

He'd soon learn to shoot it, he said, without doubt, 
If they'd put in the load phile he'd watch it conae out. 

But when he had shot it he said he had ruther 

Be pricked wid the one end than kicked wid the other ! 

His rations of whisky he'd drink at one swig, 
And never mark time but he'd end wid a jig. 

They went to the front. Pat thought it was hard, 
The very first night to be put upon guard. 

Yet he paced back and forth, out in the night air, 
Rehearsing his " Halt " and " Who goes there ? " 

" I'm to shoot at the rebels, and aim at the heart — 
But how is a stranger to teU 'em apart ? 

" I'm to know Mr. Rebel, the oflBlcers say, 

By the clothes he has on, supposed to be gray ! 

" Is a gintleman judged by the cut of his clothes. 
As a toper is tould by the tint of his nose ? 

" But how can I tell if he come in the dark? 
Must I judge of the tree by feelin' the bark ? 

" I'U be sure of his wardrobe, bedad, ere I shoot ! 
To be the right man he must wear the wrong suit ! 

" Oi think I'll surround him, the first thing I say ; 
Then axe him this question : Your coat, is it gray ? 

" But I swear by the phiskey that's iu my canteen 
" I'll not throuble him if he's wearin' the green ! " 






PAT'S CONFEDERATE PIG. 



Tis late in the night — all the camp is asleep — 
When Pat hears a noise that makes his flesh creep ! 

Something crawls through the brush ! Pat halooes out " Halt ! " 
And "Who goes there? If ye're deaf, it's yer fault ! " 

All he heai's is : r-r-ruf£ ! r-r-ruff ! that sounds like a grunt — 
" He's a rough, sure ! " says Pat, " for his language is blunt ! 

" March here and suiTender me Reb, or ye die ! 
Come ! oud wid yer business ! I'U bet yer a spy " 




U-g-h-w-e-e ! U-g-h-w-e-e ! " Holy mvirther ! Phat language is that ? 
'Tis some foreign tongue, PU be blowed ! " muttered Pat. 

"An of&cer, sure — ^but betwixt you and me, 

Is the whole army wid ye ? " U-g-h-w-e-e ! U-g-h-w-e-e ! U-g-h-w-e-e ! 
U-g-h-w-e-e ! 

" We ? We ? " muttered Pat. " Surely that's Frinch for yes ! 
I'U captur an army ! Hold aisy, I guess. 

" I'd bether have help — so I'U eaU up the crowd. 
The rebels are on us ! " he cries out aloud. 

" The rebels are on us ! " Out rush the whole corps. 
Surrounding the woods, which they quickly search o'er — 

They sweep through the brush on a double-quick jog. 
But all they can find is a dirty white hog ! 

They ciirsed tiU they laughed and laughed tUl they cried, 
For rousing the army next day Pat was tried. 

" Court-martialed ! " said Pat. " My offinse is not big ! 
Phy not try the army for rousin' the pig ? 

" But, since I've no lawyer to fix up me case 
Wid fiction I'U give the truth in its place. 

" He came in the night wid a he in his mouth. 
Just loike a Confederate, straight from the South ! 

" I axed him this question, fur I couldn't see, 

Are you, sir, a spy ! Then he answered — We ! We ! 






OVB FAVORITES. 

'As I am a soldier, I ne'er dance a jig, 
But he was a rebel disguised as a pig ! 

" I've brought into court, to confirm phat Oi say, 
These bristles, that prove he was wearin' the ' gray ! ' 

" 'Twas an that was left me, I'm sad to relate, 
Fur the rest of the pig, sirs, you officers ate ! 

" I'U spake out me moiad — sire I'll die but it's true — 
There's many a pig here that's wearin' the ' blue ! ' " 





THE GRAND ARMY BUTTON. 

How dear to my heart are the comrades I cherish, 

Who stood by my side in the battle's dark hour ; 
Who offered their lives that the land should not perish. 

The nation oui' fathers had left us for dower ; 
Who stayed not to question the right to defend her. 

The mother who bore them, when enemies pres'd. 
But, foremost in battle, scorned coward surrender, 

And earned there the signet that shines on their breast — 
The little bronze button, the veteran's button, 

The Grand Army button that shines on their breast ! 

'Tis the token of deeds of true patriot daring ; 

'Tis the pledge of high com*age in battle's affray ; 
There earned they the right to the honor of wearing 

The symbol whose glory grows brighter each day. 
No jeweUed insignia, with diamonds entwining. 

No cross of the Legion, by princes possess'd, 
Can ennoble the bosom on which it is shining 

Like the httle bronze button they wear on their breast— 
The eloquent button, the deed-teUing button, 

The Grand Army button that shines on their breast. 

Wherever I see one, 'mid plainness or splendor. 
In the garments of wealth or of poverty dres'd, 

I know that the heart of a soldier is under 

If the little bronze button but shines on the breast. 





MOTHEB'S FOOL. 

So in life will I cherish, aU honors exceeding, 
And when, the march past, they shaU lay me to rest. 

Like a soldier I'U slumber, earth's tumult unheeding. 
And the little bronze button shall sleep on my breast — 

The Grand Army button, the heart cherished button, 
The battle won button shall sleep on my breast. 





MOTHER'S FOOL. 

" 'Tis plain to me," said the farmer's wife, 
" These boys wiU make their marks in life. 
They never were made to handle a hoe. 
And at once to college they ought to go. 
Yes, John and Henry, — 'tis clear to me, — 
Great men in this world are sure to be ; 
But Tom, he's little above a fool. 
So John and Henry must go to school." 

" Now, reaUy wife," quoth Farmer Brown, 
As he set his mug of cider down, 
" Tom does more work in a day, for me. 
Than both of his brothers do in three. 
Book leamin' will never plant beans or corn. 
Nor hoe potatoes — sure as you're bom — 
Nor mend a rood of broken fence ; 
For my part give me common sense." 

But his wife the roost was bound to rule, 
And so " the boys " were sent to school ; 
While Tom, of course, was left behind. 
For his mother said he had no mind. 

Five years at school the students spent. 
Then each one into business went. 
John learned to play the flute and fiddle, 
And parted his hair (of course) in the middle ; 





OUB FAVORITES. 

Though his brother looked rather higher than he, 

And hung out his shingle, — " H. Brown, M. D." 

Meanwhile at home, their brother Tom 

Had taken a " notion " into his head ; 

Though he said not a word, but trimmed his trees. 

And hoed his com and sowed his peas. 

But somehow, either " by hook or crook," 

He managed to read f iiU many a book. 

Well, the war broke out, and " Captain Tom " 
To battle a hundred soldiers led ; 
And when the rebel flag went down, 
Came marching home as " General Brown." 
But he went to work on the farm again, 
Planted his com and sowed his grain, 
Repaired the house and broken fence ; 
And people said he had common sense. 

Now, common sense was rather rare, 
And the state house needed a portion there. 
So our " family dunce " moved into town, 
And people called him " Grovemor Brown " ; 
And his brothers, that went to the city school. 
Came home to Uve with mother's fool. 




NOBODY'S CHILD. 

[The following poem was written by Miss Phila H. Case, and originally 
appeared in the Schoolday Magazine, in March, 1867. It has been noticed 
and copied and sung and spoken almost everywhere, even finding its way 
into more than one English publication, and has really become a little "no- 
body's child, " so far as its authorship and due credit are concerned. 

Two years ago the poem was set to music and published, in St. Louis, 
ascribed to " E. D." Later it appeared in books of selections under the name 
of " Phila H. Child," but has very often appeared without credit whatever.] 

Alone in the dreary, pitUess street. 
With my torn old dress, and bare, cold feet, 
All day I have wandered to and fro. 
Hungry and shiveiing, and nowhere to go ; 






NOBODY'S CHILD. 





The night's coming on in darkness and dread, 
And the chill sleet beating upon my bare head. 
Oh ! why does the wind blow upon me so wild ? 
Is it because I am nobody's child ? 

Just over the way there's a flood of light, 
And warmth and beauty, and all things bright ; 
Beautiful children, in robes so fair. 
Are caroUing songs in their rapture there. 
I wonder if they, in their blissful glee, 
Would pity a poor Little beggar like me, 
"Wandering alone in the merciless street, 
Naked and shivering, and nothing to eat ? 

Oh ! what shaU I do when the night comes down, 

In its terrible blackness all over the town ? 

ShaU I lay me down 'neath the angry sky. 

On the cold, hard pavement, alone to die. 

When the beautiful children their prayers have said. 

And their mammas have tucked them up snugly in bed ' 

For no dear mother on me ever smUed, — 

Why is it, I wonder, I'm nobody's child ? 

No father, no mother, no sister, not one 
In all the world loves me, e'en the Httle dogs run 
When I wander too near them ; 'tis wondrous to see. 
How everything shrinks from a beggar like me ! 
Perhaps 'tis a dream ; but sometimes, when I He 
Gazing far up in the dark blue sky. 
Watching for hours, some large, bright star, 
I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar, 

And a host of white-robed nameless things, 
Come fluttering o'er me on gilded wings ; 
A hand that is strangely soft and fair 
Caresses gently my tangled hair. 
And a voice like the carol of some wild bird — 
The sweetest voice that was ever heard — 
Calls me many a dear, pet name. 
Till my heart and spirit are all aflame. 





OUB FAVORITES. 

They tell me of sucli unbounded love, 
And bid me come up to their home above ; 
And then with such pitiful, sad svtrprise, 
They look at me with their sweet, tender eyes, 
And it seems to me, out of the dreary night, 
I am going up to that world of Hght ; 
And away from the hunger and storm so wild, 
I am sure I shall then be somebody's cMld. 




'OSTLER JOE. 

I STOOD at eve, as the sun went down, by a grave where a woman 

lies, 
Who lured men's souls to the shores of sin with the Hght of her 

wanton eyes, 
Who sang the song that the siren sang on the treacherous Lurely 

height, 
Whose face was as fair as a summer day, and whose heart was 

black as night. 

Yet a blossom I fain would pluck to-day from the garden above 

her dust ; 
Not the languorous lily of soulless sin nor the blood-red rose of 

lust, 
But a sweet white blossom of holy love that grew in the one green 

spot 
In the arid desert of Phyrne's life, where all was parched and hot. 

* * * * * * * 

In the summer when the meadows were aglow with blue and 

red, 
Joe, the 'ostler of the Magpie, and f au* Annie Smith were wed. 
Plump was Annie, plimip and pretty, with a cheek as white as 

snow; 
He was anything but handsome, was the Magpie's 'ostler, Joe. 

But he won the winsome lassie. They'd a cottage and a cow, 
And her matronhood sat Hghtly on the village beauty's brow. 







'OSTLER JOE. 



Sped the months and came a baby — such a blue-eyed baby boy ! 
Joe was working in the stables when they told him of his joy. 

He was rubbing down the horses, and gave them then and there, 
All a special feed of clover just in honor of the heir ; 
It had been his great ambition, and he told the horses so, 
That the Fates might send a baby who might bear the name of 
Joe. 

Little Joe the child was christened, and Kke babies, grew apace ; 
He'd his mother's eyes of azure and his father's honest face. 
Swift the happy years went over, years of blue and cloudless sky ; 
Love was lord of that small cottage, and the tempests passed them 
by. 

Passed them by for years, then swiftly bm'st in fury o'er their home ; 
Down the lane by Annie's cottage chanced a gentleman to roam ; 
Thiice he came and saw her sitting by the window with her chUd, 
And he nodded to the baby, and the baby laughed and smiled. 

So at last it grew to know him — ^Httle Joe was nearly four ; 

He would call the pretty " gemplun " as he passed the open door. 

And one day he ran and caught him, and in child's play pulled 

him in^ 
And the baby Joe had prayed for brought about the mother's sin. 

'Twas the same old wretched story that for ages bards have sung ; 
'Twas a woman weak and wanton and a viUain's tempting tongue ; 
'Twas a picture deftly painted for a silly creature's eyes 
Of the Babylonian wonders and the joy that in them lies. 

Annie Hstened and was tempted ; she was tempted and she fell. 
As the angels f eU from Heaven to the blackest depths of Hell ; 
She was promised wealth and splendor and a life of guilty sloth, 
Yellow gold for child and husband — and the woman left them 
both. 

Home one eve came Joe the 'ostler with a cheery cry of " Wife," 
Finding that which blurred forever all the stoiy of his Ufe. 
She had left a silly letter — ^through the cruel scrawl he spelt ; 
Then he sought the lonely bedroom, joined his horny hands and 
knelt. 




if 







OUB FAVOBITES. 



"■ Now, O Lord, Grod, forgive her, for she ain't to blame ! " he 

cried, 
" For I owt t'a seen her trouble, and 'a gone away and died. 
Why, a wench Kke her — Grod bless her ! — 'twasn't likely as her'd 

rest. 
With that bonny head forever on a 'ostler's ragged vest. 

" It was Idnd in her to bear me aU this long and happy time, 

So for my sake please forgive her, though you count her deed a 

crime ; 
If so be I don't pray proper, Lord, forgive me, for you see 
I can talk aU right to 'osses, but I'm nervous like with Thee." 

Ne'er a line came to the cottage fxom the woman who had flown, 
Joe, the baby, died that winter, and the man was left alone ; 
Ne'er a bitter word he uttered, but in silence kissed the rod. 
Saving what he told his horses ; saving what he told his God. 

Far away in mighty London rose the woman into fame. 
For her beauty won men's homage, and she prospered in her shame ; 
Quick from lord to lord she flitted, higher still each pri2;e she won, 
And her rival paled beside her as the stars beside the sun. 

Next she made the stage her market, and she dragged art's temple 

down 
To the level of a show-place for the outcasts of the town. 
And the kisses she had given to poor 'Ostler Joe for naught 
With their gold and costly jewels rich and titled lovers bought. 

Went the years by with flying footsteps while her star was at its 

height. 
Then the darkness came on swiftly, and the gloaming turned to 

night. 
Shattered strength and faded beauty tore the laurels from her 

brow; 
Of the thousands who had worshipped never one came near her 

now. 

Broken down in health and fortune, men forgot her very name, 
Till the news that she was dying woke the echoes of her fame. 
And the papers in their gossip mentioned how an " actress " lay 
Sick to death in humble lodgings, growing weaker every day. 






NSW TEAR'S EVE. 



One there was "vrh.o read the story in a far-off couiitry pla«e, 
And that night the djdng woman woke and looked upon his face. 
Once again the strong ai-ms clasped her that had clasped her long 

ago, 
And the wearied head lay pillowed on the breast of 'Ostler Joe. 

All the past had been forgotten, all the soitow and the shame ; 
He had found her sick and lonely, and his wife he now could claim ; 
Since the grand folks who had known her one and all had slunk 

away, 
He could clasp his long lost darhng and no man would say him nay. 

In his arms death found her lying, in his arms her spirit fled ; 
And his tears came down in torrents as he knelt beside her dead. 
Never once his love had faltered through her base, unhallowed life : 
And the stone above her ashes bears the honored name of wife. 
* * * * * * * 

That's the blossom I fain would pluck to-day from the garden above 

her dust ; 
Not the languorous lily of soulless sin nor the blood-red rose of lust : 
But a sweet white blossom of holy love that grew in one gi'een spot 
In the arid desert of Phyme's life, where all was parched and hot. 



I 




NEW TEAR'S EVE. 

GrOOD old days — dear old days 

When my heart beat high and bold — 
When the things of earth seemed full of mirth 

And the future a haze of gold ! 
Oh, merry was I that winter night, 

And gleeful our httle one's din. 
And tender the gi*ace of my darling's face 

As we watched the New Year in. 
But a voice — a spectre's, that mocked at love — 

Came out of the yonder hall ; 
" Tick-tock, tick-tock ! " 'twas the solemn clock 

That ruefully croaked to aU. 





OVB FAVORITES. 




Yet what knew we of the griefs to be 

In the year we longed to greet ? 
Love — love was the theme of the sweet, sweet dream 

I fancied might never fleet ! 
But the spectre stood in. that yonder gloom, 

And these were the words it spake : 
" Tick-tock, tick-tock ! " — and they seemed to mock 

A heart about to break. 

'Tis New Year's eve, and again I watch 

In the old familiar place. 
And Pm thinking again, of that old time when 

I looked on a dear one's face. 
Never a Uttle one hugs my knee. 

And I hear no gleeful shout — 
I am sitting alone by the old hearth-stone, 

"Watching the old year out. 
But I welcome the voice in yonder gloom 

That solemnly calls to me : 
" Tick-tock, tick-tock ! " — ^for so the clock 

TeUs of a life to be ; 
" Tick-tock, tick-tock ! " — 'tis so the clock 

TeUs of eternity. 




CHRISTMAS-NIGHT IN THE QUARTERS. 

mWIN RUSSELL. 

When merry Christmas-day is done. 
And Christmas-night is just begun ; 
While clouds in slow procession drift 
To wish the moon-man " Christmas gift," 
Yet linger overhead, to know 
What causes all the stir below ; 
At Uncle Johnny Booker's ball 
The darkeys hold high carnival. 





CEBISTMAS-NIGHT IN THE QUABTEBS. 




From all the country-side they tlirong, 

With laughter, shouts, and scraps of song — 

Their whole deportment plainly showing 

That to THE FROLIC they are going. 

Some take the path with shoes m hand, 

To traverse muddy bottom-land ; 

Aristocrats their steeds bestride — 

Pour on a mule, behold them ride ! 

And ten great oxen draw apace 

The wagon from " de oder place," 

With forty guests, whose conversation 

Betokens glad anticipation. 

Not so with him who drives : old Jim 

Is sagely solemn, hard, and grim. 

And frolics have no joys for him. 

He seldom speaks, but to condemn — 

Or utter some wise apothegm — 

Or else, some crabbed thought pursuing, 

Talk to his team, as now he's doiug : 

Come up heah. Star ! Yee-bawee ! 

You alluz is a-laggia' — 
Mus' be you think I's dead. 

And dis de huss you's draggiu' — 
You's mos' too lazy to draw yo' bref, 

Let lone drawin' de waggin. 

Dis team — quit bel'rin, sah ! 

De ladies don't submit 'at — 
Dis team — ^you ol' fool ox, 

You heah me tell you quit 'at ? 
Dis team's — des Kke de 'Nited States j 

BaVs what I's tryin' to git at ! 

De people rides behind 

De poUytishners haulin' — 
Sh'u'd be a weU-bruk ox, 

To foUer dat ar caUin' — 
An' sometimes nuf&n won't do dem steers, 

But what dey mus' be stallin' ! 






OUR FAVORITES. 





Woo bahgh ! Buck-kannon ! Yes, sah. 

Sometimes dey will be stickiii' ; 
An' den, fus thing dey knows, 

Dey takes a rale good Hckin ' — 
De folks gits down ; an' den wateh out 

For hommerin' an' kickin'. 

Dey blows upon dey hands, 

Den flings 'em wid de nails up. 
Jumps up an' cracks dey heels. 

An' pruzntly dey sails up. 
An' makes dem oxen hump deysef, 

By twistin' aU dey tails up ! 

In this our age of printer's ink, 

'Tis books that show us how to think — 

The rule reversed, and set at naught. 

That held that books were bom of thought ; 

We form our minds by pedant's rules ; 

And all we know, is from the schools ; 

And when we work, or when we play. 

We do it in. an ordered way — 

And Nature's seK pronounce a ban on, 

Whene'er she dares transgress a canon. 

Untrammelled thus, the simple race is, 

That " works the craps " on cotton-places ! 

Origiual ia act and thought, 

Because unlearned and untaught, 

Observe them at their Christmas party. 

How unrestraiued their mirth — ^how hearty ! 

How many things they say and do. 

That never would occur to you ! 

See Brudder Brown — whose saving grace 

Would sanctify a quarter-race — 

Out on the crowded floor advance. 

To " beg a blessin' on dis dance." 

O Mahsr ! let dis gath'rin fin' a blessiu' in yo' sight ! 
Don't jedge us hard for what we does — ^you know its Chrismus 
night; 





CHBISTMAS-NIGHT IN THE QUARTERS. 





An' all de balunce ob de year, we does as right's we kin — 
Ef dancin's wrong — oh, Mahsr ! let de time excuse de sin ! 

We labors in de vineya'd — ^workin' hard, an' workin' tiii' 
Now, shorely yon won't notns, ef we eats a grape or two, 
An' takes a leetle hoHday — a leetle restin'-speU — 
Bekase, nex' week, we'U start in fresh, an' labor twieet as well. 

Remember, Mahsr — min' dis, now — de sinfulness ob sin 
Is 'pendin' 'pon de sperrit what we goes an' does it in ; 
An' in a righehis frame ob min' we's gwine to dance an' sing ; 
A-feeUn' like King David, when he cut de pigeon- wing. 

It seems to me — indeed it do — I mebbe mout be wrong — 
That people raly cynght to dance, when Chrismus comes along ; 
Dey dance bekase dey's happy — ^hke de birds hops in de trees ; 
De pine-top fiddle soundin' to de blowin' ob de breeze. 

We has no ai-k to dance afore, hke Isrul's prophet king ; 
We has no harp to soun' de chords, to holp us out to sing ; 
But 'cordin' to de gif s we has we does de bes' we knows — 
An' folks don't 'spise de vi'let-flow'r bekase it aint de rose. 

You bless us, please sah, eben ef we's doin' wrong to-night ; 
Kase den we'U need de blessin' more'n ef we's doin' right ; 
An' let de blessin' stay wid us, unteU. we comes to die. 
An' goes to keep our Chrismus wid dem sheriffs in de sky ! 

Yes, teU dem preshis anjuls we's a-gwine to jine 'em soon ; 
Our voices we's a-trainin' for to sing de glory tune ; 
We's ready when you wants us, an' it aint no matter when — 
Mahsr ! call yo' chillen soon, an' take 'em home ! Amen. 

The reVrend man is scarcely through, 
When aU the noise begins anew. 
And with such force assaults the ears. 
That through the din one hardly hears 
Old Fiddling Josey " sound his A" — 
Correct the pitch — ^begin to play — 
Stop, satisfied — ^then, with the bow. 
Rap out the signal dancers know : 





OUR FAVORITES. 

Git ycf pardners fust Jcwattilion ! 

Stomp yo' feet, an' raise 'em high ; 
Tune is : " Oh ! dat water-million ! 

Gwine to git to home bime-bye." 
8'lute yo' pardners ! — scrape perlitely — 

Don't be bumpin' gin de res' — 
Balance all ! — now, step out rightly, 

Alluz dance yo' lebbel bes'. 
Fdwa'd foaJi ! — ^whoop up niggers ! 

BacTc agHn ! — don't be so slow — 
Swing cornahs ! — ^min' de figgers ; 

When I hollers, den yo' go. 
Top ladies cross oher ! 

Hoi' on, till I takes a dram — 
Gemmen solo ! — ^yes Ps sober — 

Kaint say how de fiddle am — 
Sands around ! — ^hol' up yo' faces, 

Don't be lookia' at yo' feet ! 
Suing yo' pardners to yo' places ! 

Dat's de way — dat's hard to beat. 
Sides fo'w'd ! — when you's ready — 

Make a bow as low's you Mn ! 
Swing acrost tvid opposite lady ! 

Now we'll let you swap agin : 
Ladies change ! — shet up dat talkin' ; 

Do yo' talkin' arter while — 
Right an' lef! — don' want no walMn' — 

Make yo' steps, an' show yo' style ! 





And so the " set " proceeds — ^its length 
Determined by the dancers' strength ; 
And all agree to yield the pahn 
For grace and sMll, to " Grcorgy Sam," 
Who stamps so hard, and leaps so high, 
" Des watch him ! " is the wond'ring cry- 
De nigger mus' be, for a fac'. 
Own cousin to a jumpin'-jack." 
On, on, the restless fiddle sounds — 
Still chorused by the curs and hoxmds — 






CHBISTMAS-NIGHT IN THE QUARTERS. 

Dance after dance succeeding fast, 
Till SUPPER is announced at last. 
That scene — ^but why- attempt to show it ? 
The most inventive modern poet, 
In fine new words whose hope and trust is 
Could form no phrase to do it justice ! 
When supper ends — that is not soon— 
The fiddle strikes the same old tune ; 
The dancers pound the floor again, 
With all they have of might and main ; 
Old gossips, almost turning pale, 
Attend Aunt Cassy's gruesome tale 
Of conjurors, and ghosts, and devils. 
That ia the smoke-house hold their revels 
Each drowsy baby droops his head, 
Yet scorns the very thought of bed : — 
So wears the night ; and wears so fast. 
All wonder when they find it passed, 
And hear the signal sound, to go, 
From what few cocks are left to crow. 
Then, one and all you hear them shout : 
" Hi ! Booker ! f otch de banjo out. 
An' gib us one song 'fore we goes — 
One ob de berry bes' you knows ! " 
Responding to the welcome call. 
He takes the banjo from the wall. 
And tunes the strings with skill and care — 
Then strikes them with a master's air ; 
And tells, in melody and rhyme. 
This legend of the olden time : 

Go way, fiddle ! — folks is tired o' hearin' you a-squawkin'. 
Keep silence fur yo' betters — don't you heah de banjo talkin' ? 
About de 'possum's taU, she's gwine to lecter — ladies, Hsten ! — 
About de ha'r what isn't dar, an' why de ha'r is missin' : 

" Bar's gwine to be a oberflow," said Noah, looldn' solemn — 
For Noah tuk the " Herald," an' he read de ribber column — 
An' so he sot his hands to work a-el'ai'in' timber patches. 
An' 'lowed he's orwine to buUd a boat to beat de steamah " Natchez." 






OUR FAVORITES. 





OP Noah kep' a-nailin', an' a-ehippin', an' a-sawin' ; 
An' all de wicked neighbors kep' a-laughin' an' a-pshawin' ; 
But Noah didn't min' 'em — ^knowin' whnt wuz gwine to happen ; 
An' forty days an' forty nights de rain it kep' a-drappiu'. 

Now, Noah had done cotehed a lot ob ebry sort o' beas'es — 

Ob all de shows a-trabbelin', it beat 'em all to pieces ! 

He had a Morgan colt, an' sebral head o' Jarsey cattle — 

An' druv 'em 'board de Ark as soon's he heered de thunder rattle. 

Den sech anoder fall ob rain ! — it come so awful hebby, 
De ribber riz immejitly, an' busted troo de lebbee ; 
De people aU wuz drownded out — 'cep' Noah an' de critters, 
An' men he'd hired to work de boat — an' one to mix de bitters. 

De Ark she kep' a-saihn', an' a-sailin', a»' a-sailin' ; 

De hon got his dander up, an' hke to bruk de palin' — 

De sarpirits hissed — de painters yeUed — teU, what wid all de fussin', 

You c'u'dn't hardly heah de mate a-bossia' 'roun' an' cussin.' 

Now, Ham, de only nigger whut wuz runnin' on de packet. 
Got lonesome in de barber-shop, an' c'u'dn't stan' de racket ; 
An' so, for to amuse he-se'f, he steamed some wood an' bent it. 
An' soon he had a banjo made — de fust dat wuz invented. 

He wet de ledder, stretched it on ; made bridge an' screws, an' 

apron ; 
An' fitted in a proper neck — 'twuz berry long an' tap'rin' ; 
He tuk some tin, an' twisted him a thimble for to ring it ; 
An' den de moighty question riz : how wuz he gwine to striag it ? 

De 'possum had as fine a tail as dis dat I's a-singin' ; 
De ha'rs so long, an' thick, an' strong, — des fit for banjo stringin' ; 
Dat nigger shaved 'em off as short as wash-day-dinner graces ; 
An' sorted ub 'em by de size, from little E's to basses. 

He strung her, tuned her, stmck a jig, — twuz " Nebber min' de 

wedder " — 
She soun' like f orty-lebben bands a playin' all togedder ; 
Some went to pattin' ; some to dancin' ; Noah called de Aggers, 
An' Ham he sot an' knocked de tune, de happiest ob niggers. 





ANNIE'S AND WILLIE'S PBAYEB. 




Now, sence dat time — it's mighty strange — dere's not de slightes' 

showin' 
Ob any ha'r at all upon de 'possum's tail a-growin' ; 
An' euri's, too, — dat nigger's ways : his people nebber los' 'em — 
For whar yon finds de nigger — dor's de banjo an' de 'possum ! 

The night is spent ; and as the day 
Throws up the first faint flash of gray, 
The guests pursue their homeward way ; 
And through the field beyond the gin. 
Just as the stars are going in. 
See Santa Claus departing — grieving — 
His own dear Land of Cotton leaving. 
His work is done — ^he fain would rest, 
Where people know and love him best- 
He pauses — listens — looks about — 
But go he must ; his pass is out ; 
So, coughing down the rising tears, 
He cHmbs the fence and disappears. 
And thus observes a colored youth — 
(The common sentiment, in sooth) ; 
" Oh ! what a blessin' tw'u'd ha' been, 
Ef Santy had been born a twin ! 
We'd hab two Chrismuses a yeah — 
Or p'r'aps one brudder'd settle heah ! " 




ANNIE'S AND WILLIE'S PEAYER. 

'TwAS the eve before Christmas ; " Good-night " had been said. 

And Annie and WiUie had crept into bed ; 

There were tears on their pillows, and tears in their eyes. 

And each little bosom was heavy with sighs. 

For to-night their stem father's command had been given 

That they must retire precisely at seven 

Instead of eight ; for they troubled him more 

With questions unheard of than ever before. 






182 OUR FAVOBITES. 

He told them he thought this delusion a sin, 

No such a thing as " Santa Claus " ever had been, 

And he hoped, after this, he should never more hear 

How he scrambled down chimneys with presents each year, 

And this is the reason why two little heads 

So restlessly tossed on their soft, downy beds. 

Eight, nine, and the clock in the steeple tolled ten — 

Not a word had been spoken by either till then ; 

When WiUie's sad face from the blanket did peep. 

And whispered, " Dear Annie, is you fast asleep ? " 

" Why no, brother WiUie," a sweet voice replies, 

" I've tried in vain, but I can't shut my eyes ; 

For somehow it makes me so sorry because 

Dear papa had said there is no ' Santa Claus ; ' 

Now we know there is, and it can't be denied, 

For he came every year before mamma died ; 

But then I've been thinMng that she used to pray, 

And God would hear everything mamma would say. 

And perhaps she asked Hitn to send Santa Claus here 

With his sacks fuU of presents he brought every year." 

" Well, why tan't we p'ay dest as mamma did then. 

And ask Him to send him with presents aden ? " 

" I've been thinking so, too," and without a word more 

Four bare little feet bounded out on the floor. 

And four Uttle knees the soft carpet pressed, 

And two tiny hands were clasped close to each breast. 

" Now, WiUie, you know we must firmly believe 

That the presents we ask for we're sure to receive. 

You must wait just as still tiU. I say amen. 

And by that you will know that your turn has come then.— 

Dear Jesus, look down on my brother and me, 

And grant xis the favor we're asking of Thee : 

I want a nice book fuU of pictures, a ring, 

A writing desk, too, that shuts with a spring. 

Bless papa, dear Jesus, and cause him to see 

That Santa Claus loves us as much even as he ; 

Don't let him get fretful and angry again 

At dear brother WiUie and Annie, amen ! " 






ANNIE'S AND WILLIE'S PRAYER. 





" Please, Desus, 'et Santa Taus tome down to-night, 

And bring us some presents before it is 'igbt. 

I want he souLd dive me a bright Uttle box, 

Full of ae'obats, some other nice blocks, 

And a bag fuU of tandy, a book, and a toy. 

Amen, and then, Desus, I'U be a dood boy." 

Their prayers being ended, they raised up their heads. 

And with hearts hght and cheerful agaia sought their beds ; 

They were soon lost in slumber — ^both peaceful and deep, 

And with fairies in. dream-land were roaming in sleep. 

Eight, nine, and the httle French clock had struck ten 
Ere the father had thought of his children again ; 
He seems now to hear Annie's half -smothered sighs, 
And to see the big tears standing in Willie's blue eyes. 
" I was harsh with my darHngs," he mentally said, 
"And should not have sent them so early to bed ; 
But when I was troubled — my feehngs found vent. 
For bank stock to-day has gone down ten per cent. 

But of course they've forgot their troubles ere this. 
But then I denied them the thriee-asked-for kiss ; 
But just to make sure I'U steal up to their door, 
For I never spoke harsh to my darhngs before." 

So saying, he softly ascended the stairs. 

And arriving at their door heard both of their prayers. 

His Annie's " bless papa " draws forth the big tears, 

And WiUie's grave promise falls sweet on his ears. 

" Strange, strange, I've forgotten," said he, with a sigh, 

" How I longed when a child to have Christmas draw nigh, 

I'U atone for my harshness," he inwardly said, 

" By answering their prayers, ere I sleep in my bed." 

Then he turned to the stairs and softly went down, 

Threw off velvet sHppers and sUk dressing-gown, 

Donned hat, coat, and boots, and was out in the street — 

A miUionaire facing the cold winter sleet ; 

He first went to a wonderful " Santa Claus " store 

(He knew it, for he'd passed it the day before), 

And there he found crotvds on the same errand as he, 

Making purchase of presents, with glad heart and free, 





184 OUR FAVORITES. 

Nor stopped lie until lie had bought everything 

From a box full of candy to a tiny gold ring. 

Indeed, he kept adding so much to his store 

That the various presents outnumbered a score ! 

Then homeward he turned with his holiday load, 

And with Aunt Mary's aid in the nursery 'twas stowed. 

Miss Dolly was seated beneath a pine tree, 

By the side of a table spread out for a tea ; 

A writiug desk then in the centre was laid, 

And on it a ring for which Annie had prayed ; 

Four acrobats painted in yellow and red 

Stood with a block house on a beautiful sled ; 

There were balls, dogs and horses, books pleasing to see, 

And birds of all colors were perched in the tree ; 

"While Santa Glaus, laughing, stood up in the top. 

As if getting ready for more presents to drop ; 

And as the fond father the picture surveyed 

He thought for his trouble he had amply been paid. 

And he said to himself as he brushed off a tear, 

" I'm happier to-night than I have been for a year. 

I've enjoyed more time pleasure than ever before. 

"What care I if bank stock falls ten per cent, more 1 

Hereafter I'U make it a rule, I believe. 

To have Santa Glaus visit us each- Ghristmas eve." 

So thinking, he gently extinguished the light. 

And tripped down-stairs to retire for the night. 

As soon as the beams of the bright morning sun 

Put the darkness to flight and the stars one by one. 

Four little blue eyes out of sleep opened wide. 

And at the same moment the presents espied. 

Then out of their beds they sprang with a bound. 

And the very gifts prayed for were all of them found ; 

They laughed and they cried in their innocent glee. 

And shouted for papa to come quick and see 

"What presents old Santa Glaus had brought iu the night 

(Just the things they had wanted) and left before Ught. 

"And now," said Annie, in a voice soft and low, 

" You'll beheve there's a Santa Glaus, papa, I know ; " 







THE PIED PIPES OF MAMELIN. 




WMle dear little "Willie climbed up on his knee, 
Determined no secret between tbem should be ; 
And told, in soft whispers, how Annie had said. 
That their dear blessed mamma, so long ago dead. 
Used to kneel down and pray by the side of her chair. 
And that God, up ia heaven, had answered her prayer ! 
" Then we dot up and prayed dust as weU as we tould. 
And Dod answered our prayers ; now wasn't He dood '? " 
" I should say that He was if He sent you all these. 
And knew just what presents my children would please. 
(Well, weU, let him think so, the dear little elf, 
'Twould be cruel to teU him I did it myself.") 

Bhnd father ! who caused your stem heart to relent ? 
And the hasty word spoken so soon to repent ? 
'Twas the Beiag who bade you steal softly up-stairs, 
And made you his agent to answer their prayers. 




THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN. 

Hamelin town's in Brunswick, 

By famous Hanover city ; 
The river Weser, deep and wide, 
"Washes its waU on the southern side ; 
A pleasanter spot you never spied ; 

But, when begins my ditty. 
Almost five hundred years ago, 
To see the townsfolk suffer so 

From vermin was a pity. 

Eats! 

They fought the dogs, and killed the cats. 

And bit the babies in the cradles, 
And ate the cheeses out of the vats. 

And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles, 
Spht open the kegs of salted sprats, 
Made nests inside men's Sunday hats. 
And even spoiled the women's chats. 






OVR FAVOBITES. 

By di-owning their speaMag 
With shrieking and squeaking 
In fifty different shai-ps and flats. 
At last the people in a body 

To the Town HaU came flocking : 
" 'Tis clear/' cried they, " onr Mayor's a noddy ; 

And as for our Corporation — shocking 
To think we buy gowns lined with ermine 
For dolts that can't or won't determine 
What's best to rid us of our vermin ! 
You hope, because you're old and obese. 
To find in the furry civic robe ease ? 
Rouse up, sirs ! Give your brains a racking 
To find the remedy we're lacking. 
Or, sure as fate, we'U send you packing ! " 
At this the Mayor and Corporation 
Quaked with a mighty consternation. 

An hour they sat in council, 

At length the Mayor broke silence, 
" O for a trap, a trap, a trap ! " 
Just as he said this, what should hap 
At the chamber door but a gentle tap ! 
"Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that? 
Only a scraping of shoes on the mat f 
Anything like the sound of a rat 
Makes my heart go pit-arpat ! 
Come in ! " — ^the Mayor cried, looking bigger : 
And in did come the strangest figure. 
His queer long coat from heel to head 
Was half of yeUow and half of red ; 
And he himself was tall and thin. 
With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, 
He advanced to the Council-table : 
And, " Please your honors," said he, " I'm able, 

By means of a secret charm, to draw 
All creatures living beneath the sun, 
That creep, or swim, or fly, or run." 
(And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying, 
As if impatient to be playing 






thp: pied piper of hamelix 






THE PIED PIPES OF MAMELIN. 



Upon this pipe, as low it dangled 
Over Ms vestui'e so old-fangled.) 
" If I can rid your town of rats, 

Will you give me a thousand guilders ? " 
" One ? fifty thousand ! " — was the exclamation 
Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. 

Into the street the Piper stept, 
To blow the pipe his Ups he wiinkled, 
And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, 
And ere three shi-iU notes the pipe uttered, 
You heai'd as if an army muttered ; 

And out of the house the rats came tumbling. 
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats. 
Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats, 
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives — 
Followed the Piper for their lives. 

Until they came to the river Weser, 
"Wherein all plunged and perished 

— Save one, who, stout as Julius Caesar, _ 
Swam across, and lived to carry 
To Rat-land home his commentary. 
Which was : "At the first shrill notes of the pipe, 
I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, 
And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards. 
And a leaving ajar of consei-ve cupboards, 
And it seemed as if a voice 

(Sweeter far than by harp or by psaltery 
Is breathed) called out : ' O rats, rejoice ! 

The world is grown to one vast drysaltery ! ' " 
You should have heard the Hamehn people 
Ringing the beUs tiU they rocked the steeple. 
" Go," cried the Mayor, " and get long poles ! 
Poke out the nests and block up the holes ! 

Consult with carpenters and buHders, 
And leave in our town not even a trace 
Of the rats ! " — when suddenly up the face 
Of the Piper perked in the market-place. 

With a "First, if you please, my thousand guild, 
ers ! " 







OUB FAVORITES. 

A thousand guilders ! The Mayor looked blue ; 
So did the Corporation too. 
To pay this sum to a wandering f eUow 
With a gipsy coat of red and yeUow ! 

Besides," quoth the Mayor, with a knowing wink, 
" Our business was done at the river's brink ; 
But, as for the guilders, what we spoke 
Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. 
Besides, our losses have made us thrifty ; 
A thousand guilders ! Come, take fifty ! " 
The Piper's face fell, and he cried : 
"No trifling ! I can't wait : beside, 

With you, don't think I'U bate a stiver ! 
And folks who put me in a passion 
May find me pipe to another fashion." 
" How ? " cried the Mayor, " d'ye think I'U brook 
Being worse treated than a cook ? 
You threaten us, fellow ? Do your worst ; 
Blow your pipe there till you burst." 

Once more he stept into the street : 
And to his Hps again 

Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane 
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet 

Soft notes as yet musician's cunning 
Never gave the enraptured air), 
There was a rusthng, that seemed Kke a bustling 
Of merry crowds justhng, at pitching and hustling. 
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering. 
Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering, 
And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scatter- 

Out came the children running. 
The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood 
As if they were changed into blocks of wood. 
And could only foUow with the eye 
That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. 
As the Piper turned from the High Street 
To where the Weser rolled its waters 
Right in the way of their sons and daughters ! 





THE PIED PIPER OF HAMELIN. 




However lie tumed from south to west, 

And to Koppelberg Hill Ms steps addressed, 

" He never can cross that mighty top ! 

And we shall see our children stop ! " 

When lo ! as they reached the mountain's side, 

A wondrous portal opened wide, 

As if a cavern were suddenly hoUowed ; 

And the Piper advanced and the childi-en followed. 

And when all were in to the very last, 

The door in the mountain-side shut fast. 

Did I say all f No ! one was lame, 
And could not dance the whole of the way ; 

And in after-years, if you would blame 
His sadness, he was used to say : 
" It's dull in our town since my playmates left ; 
I can't forget that I'm bereft 
Of aU the pleasant sights they see, 
Which the Piper also promised me ; 
For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, 
Joining the tovra, and just at hand. 

My lame foot would be speedily cured, 
The music stopped, and I stood still. 
And found myself outside the hill." 
The Mayor sent east, west, north, and south, 
To offer the Piper by word of mouth, 

Wherever it was men's lot to find him. 
Silver and gold to his heart's content. 
If he'd only retui'n the way he went, 

And bring the childi'en aU behind him. 
But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavor, 
And Piper and dancers were gone forever. 

They wrote the story on a column, 
And on the great church window painted 
The same, to make the world acquainted 
How their children were stolen away. 
And there it stands to this veiy day. 
And I must not omit to say 
That in Transylvania there's a tribe 
Of alien people that ascribe 






OUR FAVORITES. 

The outlandish ways and dress, 

On which their neighbors lay such stress, 

To their fathers and mothers having risen 

Out of some subterraneous prison, 

Into which they were trepanned 

Long time ago in a mighty band 

Out of Hamehn town in Brunswick land. 

But how or why they don't understand. 

So, WiUy, let you and me be wipers 

Of scores out with all men — especially pipers : 

And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice, 

If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise 





NO SECTS IN HEAVEN. 

Talking of sects till late one eve. 
Of the various doctrines the saints beUeve, 
That night I stood, in a troubled dream. 
By the side of a darkly flowing stream. 

And a " Churchman " down to the river came ; 
"When I heard a strange voice caU his name : 
" Good father, stop ; when you cross this tide. 
You must leave your robes on the other side." 

But the aged father did not mind. 
And his long gown floated out behind. 
As down to the stream his way he took. 
His pale hands clasping a gUt-edged book. 

" I'm bound for heaven ; and when I'm there, 
Shall want my Book of Common Prayer ; 
And, though I put on a starry crown, 
I should feel quite lost without my gown." 



Then he fixed his eyes on the shining track. 
But his gown was heavy and held him back ; 






NO SECTS IN HEAVEN. 

And the poor old father tried in vain 
A single step in the flood to gain. 

I saw him again on the other side, 
But his silk gown floated on the tide ; 
And no one asked, in that blissful spot, 
Whether he belonged to the " church " or not. 

Then down to the river a Quaker strayed ; 
His dress of a sober hue was made : 
" My coat and hat must aU be gray — 
I cannot go any other way." 

Then he buttoned his coat straight up to his chin, 
And staidly, solemnly waded in. 
And his broad-brimmed hat he pulled down tight, 
Over his forehead so cold and white. 

But a strong wind carried away his hat, 
A moment he silently sighed over that ; 
And then, as he gazed to the farther shore. 
The coat shpped off, and was seen no more. 

As he entered heaven his suit of gray 
Went quietly sailing, away, away ; 
And none of the angels questioned him 
About the width of his beaver's brim. 

Next came Dr. Watts, with a bundle of psalms 

Tied nicely up in his aged arms. 

And hymns as many, a very wise thing. 

That the people ia heaven " all 'round " might sing. 

But I thought that he heaved an anxious sigh, 
As he saw that the river ran broad and high ; 
And looked rather surprised as one by one 
The psalms and hymns ia the wave went down. 

And after him, with his MSS., 

Came Wesley, the pattern of godhness ; 

But he cried, " Dear me ! what shall I do ? 

The water has soaked them through and through." 







OUB FAVORITES. 

And there on the river far and wide, 
Away they went down the swollen tide ; 
And the saint, astonished, passed through alone, 
Without his manuscripts, up to the throne. 

Then, gravely walking, two saints by name 
Down to the stream together came ; 
But as they stopped at the river's brink, 
I saw one saint from the other shrink. 

" Sprinkled or plunged ? may I ask you, friend. 

How you attained to hf e's great end ? " 

" Thus, with a few drops on my brow." 

" But I have been dipped as you see me now. 

"And I really think it will hardly do. 
As I'm ' close commimion,' to cross with you. 
You're bound, I know, to the realms of bliss. 
But you must go that way, and I'll go this." 

Then straightway plunging with all his might, 
Away to the left — ^his friend to the right. 
Apart they went from this world of sin, 
But at last together they entered in. 

And now, when the river was rolling on, 

A Presbyterian church went down ; 

Of women there seemed an innumerable throng. 

But the men I could count as they passed along. 

And concerning the road they never could agree, 
The old or the new way, which it could be. 
Nor never a moment stopped to think 
That both would lead to the river's brink. 

And a sound of murmuring, long and loud. 

Came ever up from the moving crowd ; 

" You're in the old way, and I'm in the new ; 

That is the false, and this is the true " — 

Or "I'm in the old way, and you're ia the newj 

That is the false, and this is the true." 






PAPA'S LETTER. 

But the brethren only seemed to speak : 
Modest the sisters walked and meek, 
And if ever one of them chanced to say 
What trouble she met on the way, 
How she longed to pass to the other side, 
Nor feared to cross over the swelling tide, 

A voice arose from the brethren then, 
" Let no one speak but the holy men ; 
For have ye not heard the words of Paul, 
' Oh, let the women keep silence all ? '" 

I watched them long in my curious dream, 
Till they stood by the borders of the stream ; 
Then, just as I thought, the two ways met ; 
But all the brethren were talking yet. 
And would talk on till the heaving tide 
Carried them over side by side — 
Side by side, for the way was one ; 
The toilsome journey of hfe was done ; 
And all who in Christ the Sa\'iour died. 
Came out alike on the other side. 

No forms, or crosses, or books had they, 
No gowns of silk or suits of gray ; 
No creeds to guide them, or MSS. ; 
For all had put on Christ's righteousness. 





PAPA'S LETTER. 

I WAS sitting in my study, 
"Writing letters, when I heard, 

" Please, dear mamma, Mary told me 
Mamma mustn't be 'isturbed ; 

" But I's tired of the Mtty, 
Want some ozzer fing to do ! 

Witing letters, is 'ou, mamma ? 
Tan't I wite a letter, too ?" 






OUR FAVORITES. 

" Not now, darling, mamma's busy ; 

Run and play "with Mtty, now." 
" No, no, mamma, me wite letter — 

Tan i£ 'ou will show me how." 

I would paint my darhng's portrait 

As his sweet eyes searched my face- 
Hair of gold and eyes of azure. 
Form of childish, witching grace. 

But the eager face was clouded, 
As I slowly shook my head. 

Till I said, '' I'll make a letter 
Of you, darling hoy, instead." 

So I parted back the tresses 
From his forehead high and white, 

And a stamp in sport I pasted 
'Mid its waves of golden hght. 

Then I said, " Now, httle letter. 
Go away, and bear good news." 

And I smiled as down the staircase 
Clattered loud the Httle shoes. 

Leaving me, the darling hurried 
Down to Mary in his glee : 

" Mamma's witing lots of letters ; 
I's a letter, Mary — see ? " 

No one heard the Uttle prattler 
As once more he climbed the stair, 

Reached his httle cap and tippet. 
Standing on the entry chair. 

No one heard the front door open, 
No one saw the golden hair 

As it floated o'er his shoulders 
In the crisp October air. 

Down the street the baby hastened 
Till he reached the office door. 






PAPA'S LETTEB. 

" I's a letter, Mr. Postman, 
Is there room for any more ? 

" 'Cause dis letter's doin' to papa : 
Papa lives with Grod, 'on know. 

Mamma sent me for a letter ; 
Does 'ou fink 'at I tan go ? " 

But the clerk in wonder answered, 
" Not to-day, my little man." 

" Den I'U find anuzzer office, 
'Cause I must go if I tan." 

Fain the clerk would have detained him, 
But the pleading face was gone, 

And the Uttle feet were hastening — 
By the busy crowd swept on. 

Suddenly the crowd was parted. 

People fled to left and right 
As a pair of maddened horses 

At the moment dashed in sight. 

No one saw the baby figure — 
No one saw the golden hair, 

Tin a voice of frightened sweetness 
Rang out on the autumn air. 

'Twas too late — a moment only 
Stood the beauteous vision there. 

Then the Httle face lay lifeless. 
Covered o'er with golden hair. 

Reverently they raised my darUng, 
Brushed away the curls of gold. 

Saw the stamp upon the forehead, 
Growing now so icy cold. 

Not a mark the face disfigured. 

Showing where a hoof had trod ; 
But the little life was ended — 

" Papa's letter " was with God. 








OUB FAVORITES. 



AN ORDER. 

MBS. SAEAH DE W. GAMWELL. 

" You heard my order, painter, 

The very words I said : 
All in your finest colors, 

Vermilion and Indian red ! 
And those wonderful eombitiations 

An artist only knows, 
Like moonlight on the water, 

Like dewdrops on a rose. 

" From the top to the bottom, painter, 

The very words I said ! 
And up from the sure foundations 

To the arches overhead ; 
Make them like things of beauty, 

Grarnish and decorate all ; 
Each room, each frieze and ceiling. 

Each balustrade and hall. 

'' But there's one exception, painter, 

(I spoke of it before), 
A little mark on a panel 

Behind a closet door ! 
Only a mark on a panel 

Behind a closet door. 
And the pencUled words below it 

Are * Mabel, aged four.' 

" You have my order, painter. 

You know my secret, too ! 
No hand may touch that panel 

TUl ' heaven and earth are new,' 
And I go to meet my darhng, 

Not lost, but gone before ; 
I shall know her when I see her, 

My ' Mabel, aged four.' " 






LINCOLN AND TAD 





MORTALITY. 



MORTALITY. 

[This was President Lincoln's favorite poem. He knew every word and 
line of it, and it is said that he often took great pleasure in his meditative 
moods in repeating the poem. The words in themselves are weU worth any- 
one's attention, but since having been the favorite poem of our martyred 
President it finds a warmer spot in all our hearts.] 

Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? 
Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud, 
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave, 
He passes from life to his rest in the grave. 

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, 
Be scattered around and together be laid ; 
And the young and the old, and the low and the high, 
Shall moulder to dust and together shall he. 

The child that a mother attended and loved. 
The mother that infant's affection that proved, 
The husband that mother and infant that blessed, 
Each, aU, ai-e away to their dwelling of rest. 

The maid on whose cheek, on whose brow, in whose eye. 
Shone beauty and pleasure, — ^her triumphs are by ; 
And the memory of those that beloved her and praised, 
Are alike from the minds of the living erased. 

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne, 
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn, 
The eye of the sage, and the heart of the brave, 
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave. 

The peasant whose lot was to sow and to reap. 
The herdsman who climbed with his goats to the steep, 
The beggar that wandered in search of his bread. 
Have faded away hke the grass that we tread. 

The saint that enjoyed the communion of Heaven, 
The sinner that dared to remain unforgiven, 








OUB FAVOBITES. 

The wise and tlie foolisli, the guilty and just, 
Have quietly mingled their bones m. the dust. 

So the multitude goes, like the flower and the weed. 
That wither away to let others succeed ; 
So the mtdtitude comes, even those we behold, 
To repeat every tale that hath often been told. 

For we are the same that our fathers have been ; 
We see the same sights that oui- fathers have seen, — 
"We drink the same stream, and we feel the same sun. 
And we run the same course that our fathers have run. 

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers would think ; 
From the death we are shrinking from, they too would shrink ; 
To the hf e we are clinging to, they too would cling ; 
But it speeds from the earth hke a bird on the wing. 

They loved, but their story we cannot unfold ; 
They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold ; 
They grieved, but no waU from their slumbers may come ; 
They joyed, but the voice of their gladness is dumb. 

They died, — ay ! they died ; and we things that are now, 
Who walk on the turf that Hes over their brow. 
Who make in their dwellings a transient abode. 
Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road. 

Yea ! hope and despondency, pleasure and pain. 
Are mingled together like sunshine and rain ; 
And the smUe and the tear and the song and the dirge 
Still foUow each other, like surge upon surge. 

'Tis the wink of an eye, 'tis the draught of a breath. 
From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, 
From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud, — 
Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud ? 





ONLY A BABY'S HAND. 



ONLY A BABY'S HAND. 

" Big time to-niglit," the drummers said, 
As to supper they sat them down ; 

" To-morrow's Sunday, and now's our chance 
To illuminate the town." 

" Grood ! " cries Bill Barnes, the j oiliest — 

The favorite of aU ; 
" Yes ; let's forget our troubles now 

And hold high carnival." 

The supper done, the mail arrives ; 

Each man his letters seanniag, 
With fresh quotations — ^up or down — 

His busy brain is cramming. 

But BlU — " why, what's come over him — 

Why tiu'n so quick about ? " 
He says — ^just as his pards start forth, 

" I guess I won't go out." 

His letter bore no written word. 

No prayer from vice to flee ; 
Only a ti'aciug of a hand — 

A baby's hand — of three. 

What a picture comes before his mind — 

What does his memory paint ? 
A baby at her mother's knee — 

His Httle white-robed saint. 

What cares a man for ridicule 

Who wins a victory grand ? 
Bill slept ia peace, his brow was smoothed 

By a shadowy little hand. 

Naught like the weak things of the world 

The power of sin withstand ; 
No shield between man's soul and wrong 

Like a little baby hand. 








OUR FAVORITES. 



PAUL REVERE'S RIDE. 

Listen, my children, and you shall hear 
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 

On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five ; 

Hardly a man is now alive 
Who remembers that famous day and year. 

He said to his fiiend, " If the British march 
By land or sea from the town to-night. 

Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry-arch 

Of the North Church tower, as a signal Hght,- 

One i£ by land, and two if by sea ; 

And I on the opposite shore wiU be. 

Ready to ride and spread the alarm 

Through every Middlesex village and farm, 

For the coimtry-fblk to be up and to arm." 

Meanwhile his friend, through alley and street, 
Wanders and watches with eager ears, 
Tin in the silence around him he hears 
The muster of men at the barrack-door. 

The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet, 
And the measured tread of the grenadiers 
Marching down to their boats on the shore. 

Then he climbed to the tower of the church. 

Up the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread. 

To the belfry-chamber overhead. 

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride. 
Booted and spuiTcd, with a heavy stride. 

On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere. 
Now he patted his horse's side, 

Now gazed on the landscape far and near, 
Then impetuous stamped the earth, 
And turned and tightened his saddle-girth ; 
But mostly he watched with eager search 
The belfry-tower of the old North Church, 






PAUL REVERE'S RIDE 






PAVL REVERE' S BIDE. 



As it rose above the graves on the hill, 
Lonely, and spectral, and sombre, and stiU. 

And lo ! as he looks, on the belfry's height 
A ghmmer, and then a gleam of Ught ! 

He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns, 
But lingers and gazes, till f uU on his sight 

A second lamp in the belfry burns ! 
A hurry of hoofs in a village street, 

A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark. 

And beneath from the pebbles, in passing, a spark 
Struck out by a steed that flies fearless and fleet, — 

That was all ! And yet, through the gloom and the Hght, 

The fate of a nation was riding that night ; 

And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight. 
Kindled the land into flame with its heat. 

It was twelve by the village clock. 

When he crossed the bridge into Medford town. 
It was one by the village clock, 

When he rode into Lexington. 
He saw the gilded weathercock 

Swim in the moonlight as he passed, 
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare, 
Gaze at him with a spectral glare. 

As if they already stood aghast 
At the bloody work they would look upon. 

You know the rest. In the books you have read 
How the British regulars fired and fled, — 
How the farmers gave them ball for baU, 
From behind each fence and f armyard-waU, 
Chasing the red-coats down the lane. 
Then crossing the fields to emerge again 
Under the trees at the turn of the road, 
And only pausing to fire and load. 

So through the night rode Paul Revere ; 

And so through the night went his cry of alarm 

To every Middlesex village and farm, — 
A cry of defiance, and not of fear, — 





OUB FAVORITES. 

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door, 
And a word that shall echo for evermore ! 
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past, 
Through all our history, to the last, 

In the hour of darkness and peril and need, 
The people will waken and Usten to hear 

The hurrying hoof -beat of that steed. 
And the midnight message of Paul Revere. 





ANNABEL LEE. 

It was many and many a year ago, 

In a kingdom by the sea, 
That a maiden lived whom you may know 

By the name of Annabel Lee ; 
And this maiden she lived with no other thought 

Than to love and be loved by me. 

I was a child, and she was a child 

In this kingdom by the sea ; 
But we loved with a love that was more than love, 

I and my Annabel Lee, — 
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven 

Coveted her and me. 

And this was the reason that long ago, 

In this Idngdom by the sea. 
That her high-born kinsman came. 

And bore her away from me. 
To shut her up in a sepulchre. 

In this kingdom by the sea. 

The angels, not so happy ia heaven, 

Went envying her and me. 
Yes ! that was the reason (as aU men know) 

In this kingdom by the sea. 
That the wind came out of the cloud by night, 

Chilling and killi ng my Annabel Lee. 






LEABVILLE JIM. 

But our love it was stronger by far than the love 

Of those who were older than we, 

Of many far wiser than we ; 
And neither the angels in. heaven above 

Nor the demons down under the sea, 
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee, 
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes 

Of the beautiful Annabel Lee. 
And so, aU the night-tide I lie down by the side 
Of my dai'ling, my darhng, my life, and my bride. 

In her sepulchre there by the sea, 

In her tomb by the sounding sea. 



LEADVILLE JIM. 

He came to town one winter day ; 

He had walked from Leadville all the way ; 

He went to work in. a lumber yard, 

And wrote a letter that ran : " Dear Pard, 

Stick to the claim, whatever you do, 

And remember that Jim will see you through." 

For, to quote his partner, " they owned a lead 

Mid der shplendidest brospects, und nodings to ead." 

When Sunday came he brushed his coat, 
And tied a handkerchief round his throat. 
Though his feet ia hob-nailed shoes were shod, 
He ventured to enter the house of Grod. 

When, sharply scanning his ill-clad feet, 
The usher gave him the rearmost seat. 
By chance the lovehest girl in town 
Came late to the house of Grod that day, 
And, scorning to make a vain display 







OUR FAVOBITES. 

Of her brand new, beautiful Sunday gown, 
Beside the tkreadbare man sat down. 
When the organ pealed she turned to Jim, 
And kindly offered her book to him. 
Held half herself, and showed hiTn the place, 
And then, with genuine Christian grace. 
She sang soprano, and he sang bass. 
While up in the choir the basso growled. 
The tenor, soprano, and alto howled. 
And the banker's son looked back and scowled. 

The preacher closed his sermon grand 
With an invitation to " join the band." 
Then quietly from his seat uprose 
The miner, dressed in his threadbare clothes, 
And over the carpeted floor walked down. 
The aisle of the richest church in town. 
In spite of the general shudder and frown. 
He joined the church and went his way ; 
But he did not know he had walked that day 
O'er the sensitive corns of pride, rough-shod ; 
For the miner was thinking just then of God. 
A Httle lonely it seemed to him 

In the rearmost pew when Sunday came ; 
One deacon had dubbed him " Leadville Jim," 

But the rest had forgotten quite his name. 

And yet 'twas never more strange than true, 
God sat with the man in the rearmost pew. 
Strengthened his arm in the lumber yard, 
And away in the mountains helped his " Pard." 

But after awMle a letter came 

Which ran : " Dear Yim — I haf seU our claim, 

Und I send you a jeck for half der same. 

A million, I dought, was a pooty good brice, 

Und my heart said to sell, so I took its advice — 

You know what I mean if you lof e a fraulein — 

Good-bye. I am going to marry Katrine." 






UNCLE NED'S DEFENCE. 

The hob-nailed shoes and rusty coat 

Were laid aside, and another note 

Came rippling out of the public throat, 

The miner was now no longer " Jim," 

But the deacons " Brothered " and " Mistered " him ; 

Took their buggies and showed him round. 

And, more than the fact of his wealth, they found 

Through the papers which told the wondi-ous tale, 

That the f eUow had led his class at Yale. 

Ah ! the maidens admired his splendid shape. 

Which the tailor had matched with careful tape ; 

But he married the loveliest gul ia town, 

The one who once by his side sat down. 

When up in the choir the basso gi'owled. 

Then tenor, soprano, and alto howled. 

And the banker's son looked back and scowled. 





UNCLE NED'S DEFENCE. 

My breddren and sisters, I rises for to splaia 
Dis matter what ye's talkin' 'bout ; I hopes to make it plain. 
I'm berry sony dat de tiag hab come before de church, 
For when I splains it you will see dat it am nuf&n' much. 

My friends, your humble speakah, while trabbUn' heah below. 
Has nebber stopped to hoard up gold and silber for to show, 
He's only stoppia' heah a speU ; we aU hab got to die. 
And so I always tried to lay my treasure up on high. 

Da's just one ting dat pesters me, and dat am dis, you see, 
De rabens fed old Lijah, but de ereturs won't feed me ; 
Da's got above dar business, and just go swoopin' 'round. 
And nebber stop to look at me, awaitin' on de ground. 

I waited mighty sartin Hke, my faith was powerful strong. 
I reckoned dat dem pesky birds would surely come along ; 
But oh, my friendly hearers, my faith hes kotched a fall, 
Dem aggravatin' fowls went by and never stopped at all. 



t 





-4 




OUB FAVORITES. 

De meal and flour was almost gone, de pork barrel gettin' low, 
And so one day I 'eluded dat I had better go 
To brudder Johnson's tater patch to borrer just a few. 
'Twas evening 'fore I got a start — I had so much to do. 

It happened dat de night was dark, but dat I didn't mind, 
I knowed de way to dat dah patch — ^'twas easy nuff to find, 
And den I didn't care to meet dat Johnson, for I knowed 
Dat he would sass me 'bout de mess ob taters dat I owed. 

I got de basket full at last, and tuck it on my back. 

And den was goin.' to tote it home, when somethin' went kerwhack, 

I tot it was a cannon ; but it just turned out to be 

Dat Johnson's one-hoss pistol a-pointin' straight at me. 

I tried to argufy wid him, I 'pologized a heap, 
But he said dat stealin' taters was as mean as steahn' sheep ; 
Ob course I could not take dat dar, it had an ugly sound, 
So de only ting for me to do was just to knock him down. 

And now, my friendly hearers, de story all am told, 
Ob course I pounded Johnson till he yeUed for me to hold ; 
An' now I hopes you 'grees wid me, dat dis yer case and such 
Am herry triflin' matters to fotcJi before de church. 




THE MILKMAID. 

A MTLKMAID, who poised a fuU pail on her head. 
Thus mused on her prospects m. life, it is said : 
" Let me see, — I should think that this milk will procure 
One hundred good eggs, or fourscore, to be sure. 

" Well then, — stop a bit, — ^it must not be forgotten, 
Some of these may be broken, and some may be rotten 
But if twenty for accident should be detached. 
It wiQ leave me just sixty soimd eggs to be hatched. 

" Well, sixty sound eggs, — ^no, soimd chickens, I mean : 
Of these some may die, — ^we'll suppose seventeen, 






THE MILKMAID. 

Seventeen ! not so many, — say ten at the most, 
WMch "wiU leave fifty cliickens to boil or to roast. 

" But then there's their barley ; how much will they need ? 
Why, they take but one grain at a time when they feed, — 
So that's a mere trifle ; now, then, let us see, 
At a fair market price how much money there'll be. 

" Six shillings a pair — five — ^four — ^three-and-six. 
To prevent all mistakes, that low price I will fix ; 
Now what will that make ? fifty chickens, I said, — 
Fifty times three-and-sixpence, — ril ask Brother Ned ! 

" Oh, but stop, — ^three-and-sixpence a pair I must sell 'em ! 

WeU, a pair is a couple, — ^now then let us teU 'em. 

A couple in. fifty will go (my poor brain !), 

Why, just a score times, and five pair wiU remain. 

" Twenty-five pair of fowls, — now how tiresome it is 
That I can't reckon up so much money as this ! 
WeU, there's no use in trying, so let's give a guess, — 
'U say twenty pounds, and it can te no less. 

" Twenty pounds, I am certain, will buy me a cow, 
Thirty geese and two turkeys, — eight pigs and a sow ; 
Now if these turn out well, at the end of the year, 
I shall fill both my pockets with guineas, 'tis clear. " 

Forgetting her burden, when this she had said. 
The maid superciliously tossed up her head ; 
When, alas for her prospects ! her milk-pail descended. 
And so all her schemes for the future were ended. 

This moral, I think, may be safely attached, — 

" Reckon not on your chickens before they are hatched." 







OUB FAVOBITES. 



THAT aRUMBLING OLD WOMAN. 

There was an old woman, and — ^what do you think ? — 
She lived upon nothing but victuals and drink ! 
But though victuals and drink were the chief of her diet, 
Yet this grumbling old woman never was quiet. 

— ^Mother Goose. 

She had a nice cottage, a hen-house and bam, 

And a sbeep whose fine wool furnished blankets and yarn ; 

A cow that supplied her with butter and cheese, 

A large flock of geese, and a hive full of bees. 

Yet she grumbled and grumbled from morning till night. 
For this foolish old woman thought nothiag went right ; 
E'en the days of the week were all wrong, for on Sunday 
She always declared that she wished it was Monday. 

If cloudless and fair was the long summer day, 
And the sun smiled down on the new-mown hay, 
" There's a drought," she said, " as sure as you're born ! 
If it don't rain soon, it will ruin the corn ! " 

But when descended the gentle rain. 
Blessing the bountiful fields of grain. 
And briaging new life to flowei: and bud, 
She said there was coming a second flood. 

She never gave aught to the needy and poor ; 
The outcast and hungry she turned from her door. 
" Shall I work," she said, with a wag of the head, 
" To provide for the idle and lazy their bread ? " 

But the rich she regarded with envy and spite ; 
She said 'twas a shame — 'twasn't decent nor right, — 
That the haughty old squire, with his bow-legged son. 
Should ride with two horses, while she rode with one. 

And the crabbed old fellow, — to spite her, no doubt, — 
Had built a new bam like a palace throughout, 
"With a cupola on it, as grand as you please. 
And a rooster that whirled head and tail with the breeze. 






FAILED. 

I wish, so I do," she said, cocking her eye, 
" There'd come a great whirlwiiid, and blow it sky-high ! " 
And e'en as she spoke, a loud rushing was heard, 
And the bam to its very foundations was stirred. 

It stood the shock bravely, but — pitiful sight ! — 
The wind took the old woman up like a kite ! 
As she sailed up aloft over forest and hill, 
Her tongue, so they say, it kept wagging on stUl. 

And where she ahghted, no mortal doth know, 
Or whether she ever ahghted below. 

MORAL. 

My moral, my dears, you will find if you try ; 
And if you don't find any, neither can I. 




FAILED. 

Yes, I'm a ruined man, Kate — everything gone at last ; 

Nothing to show for the trouble and toil of the weary years that 

are past ; 
Houses and lands and money have taken wings and fled ; 
This very morning I signed away the roof from over my head. 

I shouldn't care for myself, Kate ; I'm used to the world's rough 

ways ; 
I've dug and delved and plodded along through aU my manhood 

days; 
But I think of you and the children, and it almost breaks my heart ; 
For I thought so surely to give my boys and girls a splendid start. 

So many years on the ladder, I thought I was near the top — 
Only a few days longer, and then I expected to stop. 
And put the boys in my place, Kate, with an easier life ahead ; 
But now I must give the prospect up 5 that comforting dream is 
dead. 






OUE FAVORITES. 

" I am worth more than my gold, eh ? " You're good to look at 

it SO; 
But a man isn't worth very much, Kate, when his hair is turning 

to snow. 
My poor little girls, with their soft white hands, and their innocent 

eyes of blue. 
Turned adrift in the heartless world — ^what can and what will they 

do? 




"An honest failure ? " Indeed it was ; dollar for dollar was paid ; 

Never a creditor suffered, whatever people have said. 

Better are rags and a conscience clear than a palace and flush of 
shame. 

One thing I shall leave to my children, Kate ; and that is an hon- 
est name. 



What's that ? " The boys are not troubled, they are ready now to 

begin 
And gain us another fortune, and work through thick and thin ? " 
The noble fellows ! already I feel I haven't so much to bear ; 
Their courage has lightened my heavy load of misery and despair. 

"And the girls are so glad it was honest ; they'd rather not dress 

so fine. 
And think they did it with money that wasn't honestly mine ? " 
They're ready to show what they're made of — quick to earn and to 

save — 
My blessed, good little daughters ! so generous and so brave ! 

And you think we needn't fret, Kate, while we have each other left, 

No matter of what possessions our lives may be bereft ? 

You are right. With a quiet conscience, and a wife so good and 

true, 
rU put my hand to the plough again j and I know that we'U pull 

through. 






i 



FEGGING AWAT. 



PEGGINa AWAY. 




There was an old shoemaker, sturdy as steel, 

Of great wealth and repute in liis day, 
Who, if questioned his secret of luck to reveal, 

Would chirp like a bird on a spray, 
" It isn't so much the vocation you're in. 

Or your liking for it," he would say, 
"As it is that forever, through thick and through thin. 

You should keep up a-pegging away." 

I have found it a maxim of value, whose truth 

Observation has proved in the main ; 
And which well might be vaunted a watchword by youth 

In the labor of hand and of brain ; 
Por even if genius and talent are cast 

Into work with the strongest display. 
You can never be sure of achievement at last 

Unless you keep pegging away. 

There are shopmen who might into statesmen have grown, 

Pohticians for handiwork made. 
Some poets who better in workshops had shone. 

And mechanics best suited in trade ; 
But when once in the harness, however it fit, 

Buckle down to your work night and day. 
Secure in the triumph of hand or of wit. 

If you only keep pegging away. 

There are times in all tasks when the fiend Discontent 

Advises a pause or a change, 
And, on field far away and in-elevant bent, 

The purpose is tempted to range ; 
Never heed, but in sound recreation restore 

Such traits as are slow to obey. 
And then, more persistent and stanch than before. 

Keep pegging and pegging away. 






OUB FAVORITES. 

Leave fitfiil endeavors for such as would cast 

Their spendthrift existence in vain. 
For the secret of wealth in the present and past, 

And of fame and of honor, is plain ; 
It hes not in change, nor in sentiment nice, 

Nor in wayward exploit and display, 
But just ia the shoemaker's homely advice 

To keep pegging and pegging away. 





CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT. 

England's sun was slowly setting o'er the hills so far away, 
Filling aU the land with beauty at the close of one sad day ; 
And the last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair, 
He with step so slow and weaken'd, she with sunny, floating 

hair; 
He with sad, bowed head, and thoughtful, she with hps so cold and 

white, 
Strugghng to keep back the mui-mur, " Curfew vaw&t not ring to- 
night." 
" Sexton," Bessie's white Hps faltered, pointing to the prison old, 
"With its walls so dark and gloomy — walls so dark and damp and 

cold — 
" I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die 
At the ringing of the Curfew, and no earthly help is nigh. 
Cromwell will not come till sunset," and her face grew strangely 

white, 
As she spoke in husky whispers, " Curfew must not ring to-night." 
"Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton — every word pierced her young 

heart 
Like a thousand gleaming arrows, like a deadly poisoned dart — 
"Long, long y^ars I've rung the Curfew from that gloomy, 

shadowed tower ; 
Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour ; 
I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right. 
Now I'm old, I win not miss it ; girl, the Curfew rings to-night ! " 





-^ 



CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT. 




Wild iter eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful 

brow, 
And Avithin her heart's deep centre, Bessie made a solemn vow ; 
She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh, 
"At the ringing of the Curfew — Basil Underwood must die." 
And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and 

bright — 
One low murmur, scarcely spoken — " Curfew must not ring to- 
night ! " 
She with Hght step bounded forward, sprang within the old church 

door. 
Left the old man coming slowly paths he'd trod so oft before ; 
Not one moment paused the maiden, but with cheek and brow 

aglow. 
Staggered up the gloomy tower, where the beU swung to and fro ; 
Then she climbed the slimy ladder, dark, without one ray of Hght, 
Upward still, her pale lips saying : " Curfew shall not ring to-night." 
She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the great dark 

beU, 
And the awful gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to heU ; 
See, the ponderous tongue is swinging, 'tis the hour of Curfew 

now. 
And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath and paled 

her brow. 
Shall she let it ring ? No, never ! her eyes flash with sudden Hght, 
As she springs and grasps it firmly — " Curfew shall not ring to- 
night ! " 
Oxit she swung, far out, the city seemed a tiny speck below ; 
There, 'twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the beU swung to and 

fro; 
And the half-deaf sexton ringing (years he had not heai'd the beU), 
And he thought the twiHght Curfew rang young Basil's funeral 

kneU; 
StHl the maiden cHnging firmly, cheek and brow so pale and white, 
StiUed her frightened heart's wild beating — " Curfew shall not ring 

to-night." 
It was o'er — ^the beU ceased swaying, and the maiden stepped once 

more 
Firmly on the damp old ladder, where for hundred years before 







OUR FAVOBITES. 

Human foot had not been planted ; and what she this night had 

done 
Should be told in long years after — as the rays of setting sun 
Light the sky with meUow beauty, aged sires with heads of white 
TeU the children why the Curfew did not ring that one sad night. 
O'er the distant hUls came Cromwell; Bessie saw him, and her 

brow, 
Lately white with sickening terror, glows with sudden beauty 

now; 
At his foot she told her story, showed her hands all braised and 

torn; 
And her sweet young face so haggard, with a look so sad and worn, 
Touched his heart with sudden pity — ^lit his eyes with misty light ; 
" Go, your lover lives ! " cried Cromwell; "Curfew shall not riag 

to-night." 




ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. 

THOMAS GRAY. 

The curfew toUs the kneU of parting day, 
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea, 

The ploughman homeward plods his weary way. 
And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight. 

And all the air a solemn stillness holds. 
Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight. 

And drowsy tinkhngs luU the distant folds ; 

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
The moping owl does to the moon complain 

Of such as, wandering near her secret bower. 
Molest her ancient solitary reign. 

Beneath those rugged ehns, that yew-tree's shade, 
Where heaves the tui-f va. many a mouldering heap, 

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid. 
The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 





ELEGY WBITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHUBCH-YABD. 



The breezy call of incense-breatliitig morn, 

The swallow twittering from the straw-bmlt shed. 

The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed 

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 

No children run to Hsp their sire's return, 
Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 




Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield. 
Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 

How jocund did they drive their team a-field ! 

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke ! 

Let not Ambition mock their useful toU, 
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile 
The short and simple annals of the poor. 

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power. 
And aU that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave. 

Await ahke the inevitable hour : — 

The paths of glory lead but to the gi-ave. 



t 



Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these a fault. 
If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, 

"Wliere through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault 
The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 

Can storied urn or animated bust 

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 

Can Honor's voice provoke the silent dust. 
Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death ? 

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire ; 

Hands that the rod of empire might have swayed 
Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre : 







OUB FAVOBITES. 

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page 
Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er imroll ; 

Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, 
And froze the genial CTirrent of the soul. 

Full many a gem of purest ray serene. 

The dark unf athomed caves of ocean bear ; 

Full many a flower is born to blush unseen 
And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 

Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast 
The little tyrant of his fields withstood ; 

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, 
Some CromweU guiltless of his country's blood. 

The applause of Hstening senates to command. 
The threats of pain and ruin to despise. 

To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, 
And read their history in a nation's eyes. 

Their lot forbade : nor circumscribed alone 

Their gTowing virtues, but their crimes confined ; 

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne. 
And shut the gates of mercy on mankind. 

The strvigghng pangs of conscious truth to hide, 
To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame. 

Or heap the shi*ine of Luxury and Pride 
With incense kindled at the Muse's flame. 

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife. 
Then* sober wishes never learned to stray ; 

Along the cool sequestered vale of life 
They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 

Yet even these bones from insult to protect. 

Some frail memorial stiU erected nigh 
"With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, 

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 

Their name, their years, spelt by the unlettered Muse, 
The place of fame and elegy supply ; 






-4 




ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD. 

And many a holy text around she strews, 
That teach the rustic morahst to die. 

For who, to dumb Forgetfulness a prey, 
This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned. 

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day. 
Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind ? 

On some fond breast the parting soul rehes, 
Some pious drops the closing eye requires ; 

E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, 
E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires. 

For thee, who, mindful of the unhonored dead, 
Dost in these lines their artless tale relate ; 

If chance, by lonely Contemplation led. 
Some kindi'ed spirit shall inquire thy fate ; 

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say ; 

" Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn 
Brushing with hasty steps the dews away. 

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 

" There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high. 

His hstless length at noontide would he stretch, 
And pour upon the brook that babbles by. 

" Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn. 
Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove ; 

Now drooping, woeful, wan, Uke one forlorn. 
Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love. 

" One mom I missed him on the 'customed hill, 
Along the heath and near his favorite tree ; 

Another came ; nor yet beside the riU, 
Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; 

" The next, with dirges due, in sad array, 

Slow through the churchway path we saw him borne ; 
Approach and read — for thou canst read — the lay 

Grraved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn." 






OUB FAVORITES. 



THE EPITAPH. 



Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth, 
A Youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown ; 

Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, 
And Melancholy marked him for her own. 

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 
Heaven did a recompense as largely send ; 

He gave to Misery aU he had — a tear ; 

He gained from Heaven — ^'twas aU he wished- 

No further seek his merits to disclose. 

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode- 
There they alike iu trembling hope repose — 
The bosom of his Father and his G-od. 




-a friend. 



THE BRAVEST OF BATTLES. 




JOAQUm MnJiER. 

The bravest battle that ever was fought. 
Shall I teU you where and when ? 

On the maps of the world you'll find it not ; 
'Twas fought by the mothers of men. 

Nay, not with cannon or battle shot. 

With sword or nobler pen ; 
Nay, not with eloquent word or thought 

From mouth of wonderful men. 

But deep in a walled-up woman's heart — 
Of woman that would not yield, 

But bravely, silently bore her pai-t — 
Lo ! there is the battle-field. 

No marshalling troop, no bivouac song. 
No banner to gleam and wave ! 

But oh, these battles, they last so long — 
From babyhood to the grave. 





FOUR SUNBEAMS. 



FOUR SUNBEAMS. 





Four little sunbeams came earthward one day, 
Shining and dancing on their way, 

Resolved that their course should be blest, 
" Let us try," they all whispered, " some kindness to do, 
Not seek our own pleasure all the day through, 

Then meet in the eve in the west." 

One sunbeam ran in a low cottage door, 

And played " hide-and-seek " with a child on the floor, 

Till the baby laughed loud ia his glee. 
And chased iu delight his strange playmate so bright, 
The Httle hands grasping ia vain for the hght 

That ever before them would flee. 

One crept to the couch where an invaUd lay. 

And brought him a dream of the sweet summer day, 

Its bird song, and beauty, and bloom, 
Till pain was forgotten, and weary unrest, 
And in fancy he roamed through the scenes he loved best, 

Far away from the dim darkened room. 

One stole in the heart of a flower that was sad. 
And loved and caressed her until she was glad. 

And lifted her white face again ; 
For love biings content to the lowliest lot, 
And finds something sweet in the dreariest spot, 

And hghtens aU labor and pain. 

And one, where a little blind gul sat alone. 
Not sharing the mirth of her playfellows, shone 

On hands that were folded and pale, 
And kissed the poor eyes that had never known sight, 
That never would gaze on the beautiful light 

TUl the angels had lifted the veil. 

At last when the shadows of evening were falling, 
And the sun, their father, his children was calling. 
Four sunbeams passed into the west. 





OUB FAVORITES. 



All said : " We have found in seeking the pleasure 
Of others, we find to the fuU our own measure." 
Then softly they sank to their rest. 





LET BY-GONES BE BY-GONES. 

Let by-gones be by-gones. If by-gones were clouded 
By aught that occasioned a pang of regret, 

O, let them ia darkest obhvion be shrouded ; 
'Tis wise and 'tis Idnd to forgive and forget. 

Let by-gones be by-gones, and good be extracted 

From ill over which it is folly to fret ; 
The wisest of mortals have foohshly acted — 

The kindest are those who forgive and forget. 

Let by-gones be by-gones. O, cherish no longer 
The thought that the sun of affection has set ; 

Echpsed for a moment, its rays will be stronger, 
If you, hke a Christian, forgive and forget. 

Let by-gones be by-gones. Your heart will be Hghter 
"When kindness of yours with reception has met ; 

The flame of your love will be purer and brighter. 
If, God-hke, you strive to forgive and forget. 

Let by-gones be by-gones. O, purge out the leaven 

Of mahce, and try an example to set 
To others, who, craving the mercy of Heaven, 

Are sadly too slow to forgive and forget. 

Let by-gones be by gones. Remember how deeply 
To Heaven's forbearance we all are ia debt ; 

They value God's infinite goodness too cheaply 
Who heed not the precept, " Forgive and forget." 





HIT THE NAIL ON THE HEAD. 



HIT THE NAIL ON THE HEAD. 

The wcarld is no hive where the drone may repose, 

While others are gleaning its honey with care ; 
Nor will he succeed who is dealing his blows 

At random, and recklessly hits everywhere. 
But choose well your purpose, then breast to the strife, 

And hold to it firmly, by rectitude led ; 
Give your heart to that duty, and strike for your life, 

And with every stroke, hit the nail on the head. 

If Fate is against thee ne'er falter nor fret, 

'Twill not mend your fortunes, nor Ughten your load ; 
Be earnest, stiU earnest, and you will forget 

You e'er had a burden to bear on the road. 
And when at the close, what a pleasure to know. 

That you, never flinching, however life sped, 
Gave your heart to your duty, your strength to each blow. 

And with every stroke, hit the nail on the head. 





GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY. 

She stood at the bar of justice, 

A creature wan and wild, 
In form too small for a woman. 

In features too old for a child ; 
For a look so worn and pathetic 

"Was stamped on her pale young face, 
It seemed long years of suffering 

Must have left that silent trace. 

" Your name," said the judge, as he eyed her 

With a Idndly look, yet keen ; 
" Is Mary McGuire, if you please, sir." 

"And your age ? " " I'm turned fifteen." 





OUB FAVORITES. 




Well, Mary," — and then from a paper 

He slowly and gravely read. 
You are charged here — ^I'm sorry to say it — 

With stealing three loaves of bread. 



" You look not hke an offender, 

And I hope that you can show 
The charge to be false. Now, tell me 

Are you guilty of this, or no ? " 
A passionate burst of weepiug 

Was at first her sole reply. 
But she dried her eyes in a moment 

And looked in the judge's eye. 

" I will tell you just how it was, sir ; 

My father and mother are dead, 
And my little brother and sisters 

Were hungry, and asked me for bread. 
At first I earned it for them 

By working hard all day, 
But somehow times were bad, sir. 

And the work all fell away. 

" I could get no more employment ; 

The weather was bitter cold ; 
The young ones cried and shivered — 

Little Johnny's but four years old ; 
So, what was I to do, sir ? 

I am guilty, but do not condemn, 
I took — oh, was it stealing ? — 

The bread to give to them." 

Every man iu the court-room — 

Grraybeard and thoughtless youth — 
Knew, as he looked upon her, 

That the prisoner told the truth. 
Out of their pockets brought 'kerchiefs, 

Out from then* eyes sprung tears, 
And out from old faded wallets 

Treasures hoarded for years. 






THE STARLESS CBOWN. 

The judge's face was a study, 

The strangest you ever saw, 
As he cleared his throat and murmured 

Something about the law ; 
For one so learned in such matters, 

So wise in dealing with men, 
He seemed on a simple question 

Sorely puzzled just then. 

But no one blamed him, or wondered. 

When at last these words they heard : 
" The sentence of this young prisoner 

Is, for the present, deferred." 
And no one blamed him, or wondered 

When he went to her and smiled. 
And tenderly led from the court-room 

Himself, the " guilty " child. 




THE STARLESS CROWN. 

Wearied and worn with earthly care, I yielded to repose. 
And soon before my raptured sight a glorious vision rose. 
I thought, while slumbering on my couch in midnight's solemn 

gloom, 
I heard an angel's silvery voice, and radiance filled my room. 
A gentle touch awakened me ; a gentle whisper said, 
"Arise, sleeper, follow me ! " and through the air we fled ; 
We left the earth so far away that like a speck it seemed. 
And heavenly glory, calm and pui"e, across our pathway streamed. 

Still on he went ; my soul was wrapped in silent ecstasy ; 
I wondered what the end would be, what next would meet my eye. 
I knew not how we journeyed through the pathless fields of hght 
When suddenly a change was wrought, and I was clothed in white. 
We stood before a city's walls, most glorious to behold ; 
We passed through streets of glittering pearl, o'er streets of purest 
gold. 







OUE FAVORITES. 

It needed not the sun by day, nor silver moon by night ; 
The glory of the Lord was there, the Lamb Himself its Hght. 

Bright angels paced the shining streets, sweet music filled the air, 
And white-robed saints, with gUttering crowns, from every cUme 

were there ; 
And some that I had loved on earth stood with them round the 

throne. 
"All worthy is the Lamb," they sang, " the glory His alone." 
But, fairer far than all beside, I saw my Savioujr's face, 
And as I gazed. He smiled on me, with wondrous love and grace. 
Slowly I bowed before His throne, o'er joyed that I at last 
Had gained the object of my hopes, that earth at length was past. 

And then in solemn tones. He said, " Where is the diadem 
That ought to sparkle on thy brow, adorned with many a gem f 
' I know thou hast beheved on Me, and life, through Me, is thine, 
But where are aU those radiant stars that in thy crown should shine ? 
Yonder thou seest a glorious throng, and stars on every brow ; 
For every soul they led to Me, they wear a jewel now ; 
And such thy bright reward had been, if such had been thy deed, 
If thou hadst sought some wandering feet in paths of peace to lead. 

" I did not mean that thou should'st tread the way of life alone. 
But that the clear and shining light which round thy footsteps shone 
Should guide some other weary feet to My bright home of rest, 
And thus in blessing those around, thou hadst thyself been blest." 
The vision faded from my sight ; the voice no longer spake ; 
A spell seemed brooding o'er my soul, which long I feared to break. 
And when at last I gazed around, in morning's ghmmering light. 
My spirit fell, o'erwhelmeS. amid that vision's awful night. 

I rose and wept with chastened joy that yet I dwelt below — 

That yet another hour was mine, my faith by works to show. 

That yet some sinner I might teU of Jesus' dying love, 

And help to lead some weary soul to seek a home above. 

And now whUe on the earth I stay, my motto this shall be, 

" To live no longer to myseM, but to Him who died for me." 

And graven on my inmost soul this word of truth divine, 

" They that turn many to the Lord, bright as the stars shall shine." 







HISTORY OF FAVORITES IN SONG 
AND VERSE. 



Ofttimes the circumstances of the writing of a song or 
poem is of as much interest as the production itself. We 
all have "Favorites," and thousands of readers go into 
ecstasies over this and that one, when, if they but knew 
the history that was no doubt attached to it, how much 
more highly it would be prized by them ! It is our aim 
in this department to bring out the double value that is 
attached to many of the best productions of the day by 
giving the circumstances of their writing. And further, 
in making our selections it has been our aim to give the 
most popular and interesting, and at the same time to bring 
out as near as possible the different thoughts of sentiment. 
As a matter of entertainment and historic facts, we com- 
mend this department to the careful perusal of our readers, 
and can assure them that an exceedingly interesting knowl- 
edge can be gained by becoming familiar with the follow- 
ing pages. 



"GUIDE ME, O THOU GREAT JEHOVAH." 

This was one of a collection of hymns written by its 
author, William Williams, at the suggestion of Lady 
Huntington. She had read one of his books, and was so 
much moved by it that she at once solicited him to write 






HISTOET OF FAVORITES IN SONG AND VEBSE. 




a collection of hymns. In this collection was this much 
■used hymn. The collection was used in Mr. Whitefield's 
Orphans' Home in this country, and the hymn was very 
familiar in America before it became popular in the coun- 
try of its author. Williams, who is often termed "the 
"Watts of Wales," was born in 1717, and died in 1791. He 
early gave his life to the ministry, and at the age of twenty- 
three received deacon's orders. He was eloquent in his 
sermons, and was very successful in bringing his country- 
men to Christ. His talent extended to the production of 
hymns, and with grand effect. By these, and by his min- 
isterial work, he became widely and popularly known. 
Olivers, a brother Welchman, supplied the music to " Gruide 
me, Thou Great Jehovah," and thus it is often taken that 
he was the author. 



t 



"ROCK OF AGES." 

What soul-inspiring sentiment has been awakened by 
these beautiful lines ! What Christian comfort and heav- 
enly hope it has brought to the army of weary warriors 
" battling for the right ! " Thousands of Christians have 
been consoled in their dying hour by the redeeming love 
of Christ these lines impart. The place it holds in the 
affections of the Church is possibly greater than that of 
any other hymn. Its popularity is surely not surpassed 
by any. The author, Augustus Montague Toplady, was 
born at Farnham in 1740. His father, ere many years of 
his life had passed, died, and young Augustus was brought 
up under the Christian training of his mother, receiving 
his education at Westminster school. Of the experience 
that led to his conversion, which took place at Codymain, 
an obscure place in Ireland, in his sixteenth year, he hav- 
ing by chance heard an impressive sermon delivered in a 
barn by an illiterate layman, he thus speaks in his diary : 






ir- 



\ 



"BOCK OF AGES." 



" That sweet text, ' Ye wlio sometimes were afar off, are 
made nigh by the blood of Christ,' was particularly delight- 
ful and refreshing to my soul : under the ministry of that 
dear messenger, I was, I trust, brought nigh by the blood 
of Christ in August, 1756." 

Taking up the ministry of the Chm^ch of England, he 
worked and wrote with seK-exhausting zeal. His only 
failing was heated language and dictatorial stand in de- 
bate. In 1775, owing to failing health, his physicians sent 
him to London, Here he entered a new field in the pas- 
torage of the French Calvinist Reformed Chui'ch. 

In the Gospel Magazine of March, 1776, he shows the 
enormity of the debt of sin by numerical calculation, and 
demonstrates how Christ has cancelled this great debt and 
redeemed the soul. Afire with these thoughts, he com- 
posed the beautiful lines, just as given below. As sung 
to-day, it is somewhat changed and transposed from the 
original : 

Rock of Ages, cleft for me, 

Let me hide myself in Thee : 

Let the water and the blood, 

From Thy riven side which flowed, 

Be of sia the double cure, 

Cleanse me from its gnilt and power. 

Not the labor of my hands 
Can fulfil Thy law's demands : 
Could my zeal no respite know. 
Could my tears forever flow, 
AH for siu could not atone. 
Thou must save, and Thou alone. 

Nothing in my hands I bring, 
Simply to Thy cross I cHng : 
Naked, come to Thee for dress, 
Helpless, look to Thee for grace : 
Foul, I to the fountain fly : 
Wash me, Saviom*, or I die. 








EISTOBY OF FAVORITES IN SONG AND VERSE. 

WMlst I draw this fleeting breath, 
When my eye-strings break in death : 
When I soar through tracts unknown. 
See Thee on Thy judgment throne, 
Eock of Ages, cleft for me, 
Let me hide myself in Thee. 

At thirty-eigM life passed away, his last words being, 
" It will not be long before Grod takes me, for no mortal 
can live after the glories God has manifested to my 
soul." 

Other hymns testify to his ability as a song-writer, but 
" Rock of Ages " will live and grow forever as one of the 
brightest stars in the firmament of song. 



"ALL HAIL THE POWER OF JESUS' NAME." 

It was written by Edward Perronet, son of the Eev. 
Vincent Perronet, a somewhat noted English minister of 
the old school. Young Perronet in early life joined the 
Methodist 'Church, and became a close friend of Charles 
Wesley. His opposition of the union of Church and State 
was so strong that he expressed himself in some of his 
writings to such an extent as to incur the displeasure of 
the latter and lose the power of patronage, which had 
secured him an appointment under the Countess of Hunt- 
ingdon. 

He died in January, 1792, having for a number of years 
had charge of a congregation of Dissenters. 

How emblematic of l^is life and faith is th^^j^and fa- 
miliar hymn ! He seems to have put in it the inspu'ation 
of his soul, that led him to give his life-strength in a work 
to bring many to the throne. Fighting bravely on against 
the cruel prejudices that made life a continued effort, 
strengthened by his faith, he made at last death triumph- 






"ALL HAIL THE POWER OF JESUS' NAME," 




ant and gained a glorious entrance to heaven, " To crown 
Him Lord of all." 

Others of his writings -we have, but none to compare 
with this. We give the original words. 

AH hail the power of Jesus' name, 

Let angels prostrate fall : 
Bring forth the royal diadem, 

And crown Him Lord of all. 

Crown Him, ye martyrs of your God, 

Who from His altar call : 
Extol the Stem of Jesse's rod, 

And crown Him Lord of all. 

Hail Him, ye heirs of David's hne, 

Whom David " Lord " did call : 
The Grod incarnate ! Man divine, 

And crown Him Lord of all. 

Ye seeds of Israel's chosen race. 

Ye ransoms of the fall. 
Hail Him who saves yon hy His grace, 

And crown Hitn Lord of aU. 

Sinners, whose love can ne'er forget 

The wormwood and the gall, 
Go, spread yonr trophies at His feet. 

And crown Him Lord of all. 




Let every trihe and every tongue 
That bound creation's caU, 

Now shout the universal song, 
The crowned Lord of aU. 





HISTORY OF FAVOBITES IN SONG AND VERSE. 





"PRAISE GOD, FROM WHOM ALL BLESSINGS FLOW." 

Few people in singing this grand doxology tMnk other 
than that it was written as a single verse, and for the sole 
purpose for which it is now used. Sung in all climes and 
by all civilized nations, suited to every Christian denomi- 
nation, to all times and places, and so dear to the Church 
universal, it must live and be sung as long as man remains 
to tell of our Grod, from whom our blessings come. 

The four lines were originally written as the closing 
verse of a morning and evening hymn, of some thirteen 
stanzas each, to be used in devotional exercises by the stu- 
dents in Winchester College, and in 1697 the hymn became 
a part of a work entitled "A Manual of Prayer," 

The author, Thomas Ken, was born in 1637, at Berk- 
hamstead, England, and received his education at Oxford. 
His love for holy music, and taking in early life to the min- 
istry, gave him opportunity to aid in organizing musical 
societies during the reign of Cromwell, who had ordered 
the organists and choristers silenced. 

In 1679 he was made chaplin to Mary, Princess of 
Orange, and one year later to Charles II. His duty was 
always performed in a Grod-fearing manner, and his re- 
proofs to the King's waywardness was given most point- 
edly. It is recorded that Charles would often good-na- 
turedly say, " I must go and hear Ken teU me my faults." 
To show how fearlessly he did his duty, we quote from 
Macaulay the following : " Before he became a bishop he 
had maintained the honor of his gown by refusing, when 
the court was at Winchester, to let NeU Owynn, the King's 
mistress, lodge at the house he occupied as prebendary. 
The King had sense enough to respect so manly a spirit, 
and of all the prelates he liked Ken best." 

On the ascension of WiUiam III., Prince of Orange, he 
was relieved of his bishopric, having stubbornly resisted 





JESUS, MY ALL TO HEAVEN IS O-OKE." 




the re-establishment of popery. Eednced to poverty, lie 
accepted the hospitality of Lord Viscount Weymouth, re- 
maining at his home, Longleat, near Frome, in Somerset- 
shire, for some twenty years. Under Queen Anne he was 
offered the bishopric again, but refused, wishing retire- 
ment for the rest of his life. In March, 1710, he died, and 
was buried in the church-yard of Frome. 

Says Lord Macaulay, "The moral character of Ken, 
when impartially reviewed, sustains a comparison with 
any in ecclesiastical history and seems to approach, as near 
as any human infirmity permits, to the ideal of Christian 
perfection." 



"JESUS, MY ALL TO HEAVEN IS GONE." 

How often a life of sin is followed until the soul is bur- 
dened with remorse so great it can bear no more ! The 
good in the man has been drowned so long by the evil that 
a reaction must come. It asserts itself — ^brings the man 
to a full realization of the sinful past, and the awful future 
that must come if he continues in his downward course. 
Such was the early life of John Cenniek, the author of 
"Jesus, my all to Heaven has gone," a hymn fully ex- 
pressing the resolves of a redeemed soul. 

Cenniek was a bright youth, of warm social nature, 
which made him many friends ; his keen perception made 
him familiar with the vices of his day. He was fond of 
cards, novels, and theatres, and he was classed as a smart 
but profitless boy. But he became restless and unhappy 
with aU this seeming enjoyment, daily the desultory life 
became less attractive, and his conscience continually 
brought before him the ruin he was bringing to both body 
and soul. He says, " While walking hastily in Cheapside, 
the hand of the Lord touched me, and I at once felt an 
uncommon fear and dejection." For some months he 







HISTORY OF FAVORITES IX SOJSfG AND VERSE 




strove with, his own strength to retrieve the past. He 
knew that he must die and suffer the penalty of a sinner, 
unless redeemed. He could not find the peace of mind he 
sought until one day he came across the words, "I am thy 
salvation." It showed him the way to the comfort he had 
been asking. Believing and receiving Christ as the only 
means of pardoning power, he at once found peace of mind 
and a hope for a heavenly future. His happiness was great, 
and he continually felt the presence of the Lord. 

Being of a poetical turn, he at once put in verse his ex- 
perience and thus originated the beautiful hymn 

Jesus, my all to heaven is gone. 

He died in 1755, being about thu^ty-five. His last years 
were spent in Christian work, and he made a strenuous 
effort with his former companions to come to Christ. 

The following verse, written by him a short time before 
his death, will show the peace with which he anticipated 
the end of earth. 

O Lamb, I languisli 

Till the day I see 
When Thou shalt say 

Come up and be with me : 
Twice seven years 

Have I Thy servant been, 
Now let me end 

My service and my sia. 



"COME, YE SINNERS, POOR AND NEEDY." 

The author, Joseph Hart, after receiving a liberal educa- 
tion, entered the profession of teaching. The first forty- 
five years of his life was indeed a checkered one. At times 
he would become deeply impressed with the earthly com- 





-^ 



"COME, YE SINNEBS, POOR AND NEEDY." 




fort and heavenly happiness given to a faithful Christian. 
During his early years these impulses for good often as- 
serted themselves and brought a restrained and prayer- 
ful life. Evil temptation finally claimed him, and, like 
most men of talent and impulses, he followed the scriptural 
injunction, " What thy hands find to do, do it with thy 
might." His influence for sin while away from the fold of 
the Lord, was waxed with the same enthusiasm that his 
strength was given to the right while following the Mas- 
ter's teachings. He became noted for his disregard of mo- 
rality and religious teachings : finally publishing a skeptical 
work entitled " The Unreasonableness of Eeligion." His 
own words best express the depths of his iniquity. " I 
was," he said, " in an abominable state, — a loose backslider 
and an audacious apostate." At last his conscience was 
bm-dened with more than it could bear. Remorse and re- 
pentance followed, and his penitence at the throne of grace 
was earnest and sincere. For a time, however, he was un- 
able to cast the weight of sin away, but at last he fully ex-f 
perienced the pardoning love of Grod. He attributed his 
conversion to the deep impression made on him by the 
sufferings of Christ. 

He thus expresses that experience : " The week before 
Easter, 1757, I had such an amazing view of the agony of 
Christ in the garden as I know not how well to describe. 
I was lost in wqnder and adoration, and the impression 
was too deep, I believe, to ever be obhterated. I beheve 
that no one can know anything of the sufferings of Jesus, 
but by the Holy Ghost." 

Under the inspiring influence of that experience he wrote 
the hymn 

Come, ye sinners, poor and wretched. 






HISTORY OF FAVOBITES IN SONG AND VERSE. 




"LORD, DISMISS US WITH THY BLESSING," 

Ranks in popularity "with. "All Hail the power of Jesus' 
Name " and " Praise Grod, from whom all blessings flow : " 
like them it is used by many denominations and in many 
climes. Being so universal in public service, it seems to 
grow in use and favor, and though its author, Walter 
Shirley, wrote but few hymns, this one, which has proved 
enduring, will give him renown for ages to come. 

There is no note of any special event that brought forth 
the song, but it is the result of Christian thought and im- 
pulse. Shirley's hymns are of a high rank, and give the 
author a place among the first hymn-writers. 

His life, which began 1725 and closed sixty-one years 
later, was devoted to Christian work, yet full of severe 
trials. After obtaining great success in the ministry, he 
was forced to endure the remorse of a pubhc execution of 
*-his brother, Earl Ferrars, who had lived a licentious hfe 
and shot his steward because he showed favor to Lady 
Ferrars in her case against the earl's favorite mistress. 

From the execution Sir "Walter took up the duties of life 
a broken-hearted man. He expressed his gTief in the 
beautiful lines : 

Peace, troubled soul, whose plaintive moan 
Hath taught these rocks the not<»s of woe ; 

Cease thy complaint — suppress thy gToan, 
And let thy tears forget to flow ; 

Behold the precious balm is found, 

To lull thy pain, to heal thy wound. 

Come, freely come, by sin oppressed. 

Unburden here thy weighty load ; 
Here find thy refuge and thy rest. 

And trust the mercy of thy God : 
Thy God's thy Saviour — glorious word ! 
Forever love and praise the Lord. 






"FATHER, WEATE'EB OF EARTHLY BLISS. 



In Hs last years, unable to attend his parish duties, he 
often had his neighbors come in, and he preached to them 
from his chair. The end came in 1786, and he was freed 
from earthly trouble, for which his soul had longed. 




"FATHER, WHATE'ER OF EARTHLY BLISS." 

One of the most popular of Baptist hymn-writers is 
" Mrs. Steele," the daughter of WiUiam Steele, a Baptist 
minister of Hampshii*e, England. The term "Mrs." is 
given her not from the fact that she was ever married, but 
as a mark of honor to her hterary attainments. It is an 
English custom to thus address maiden ladies as a mark 
of respect, who have attained prominence and are entitled 
to especial respect. 

Mrs. Steele was an example of those patient sufferers, 
who teach their more fortunate companions lessons of 
thankfulness every day. An accident in her childhood 
made her an invahd for hfe, yet she made herself beloved 
by all, and was engaged to a gentleman of excellent attain- 
ments. On the eve of their marriage he was drowned. 
Weighted with this double sorrow, she found comfort in a 
drdly exercise of Christian acts, and the hours spent in 
hymn-writing. After her father's death, being left en- 
tii'ely alone, the pleasures of the world were naught to her. 
Yet she bore all her sufferings with the true Christian 
resignation, and her death came as a pleasant call to join 
friends gone before, and enjoy a heavenly home her life- 
work had earned. Her patient, devoted, and forbearing 
and Christian life she seems to have so fully expressed in 
her beautiful hymn : 

Father, whate'er of earthly bHss 
Thy sovereign will denies, 
Accepted at Thy throne of grace, 
Let this petition rise. 








HISTORY OF FAVOBITES IN SONG AND VEBSE. 

Give me a caJm and thankful heart, 

From every murmur free, 
The blessings of Thy love impart 

And help me live to Thee. 

Let the sweet hope that Thou art mine 

My Hf e and death attend, 
Thy presence through my journey shine, 

And crown my journey's end. 

Her life desire is most beautifully given in the above, 
and it was most graciously answered, and the crown was 
waiting at her journey's end. 

What an example to follow ! Deprived of strength and 
health, we all deem so necessary to enjoy life, yet she made 
continued sunshine, not only for herself, but for others. A 
happy home and a loving husband seemed about to be 
given her, yet she murmured not when this pleasure was 
denied : left entirely alone by her father's death, she seemed 
to seek the more to do Christian duty and glorify her Lord. 
No complaint was ever known to come from her. She 
never tired of serving and suffering for her Master, Her 
hymns are deservedly popular. The one just quoted is in- 
deed sweet, as it is so expressive of her life. 



"NEARER, MY GOD, TO THEE." 

One of the most popular and widely known hymns of 
this age, and one that touches a chord of sympathy in 
every heart, is 

Nearer, my God, to Thee. 

It has followed the march of Christianity into heathen 
lands, and has been translated into many tongues. 

Benjamin Flower, an Enghsh author and editor of some 
note, had two daughters, Eliza and Sarah. Sarah, the 
youngest, was born 1805, but was soon left an orphan by 






"NEARER, MY GOD, TO THEE" 

the death of a refined and ctdtui'ed mother. The attach- 
ment that naturally came to the girls for each other, on 
being bereaved of their mother, was indeed great. It was 
only to be expected, though, as they both took largely of 
the refined and sentimental feehngs of their mother. 

Ehza, the elder, gave her time and talent to the compo- 
sition of music and musicial attainments. Says a critic : 
" Ehza Flower attained a higher rank in musical compo- 
sition than before her time had been reached by any of 
her sex." 

Her sister Sarah, at the age of twenty-nine, married 
WiUiam Bridges Adams : but the cares of married life in 
nowise retarded her life's work, that of composing poetry. 
In 1841 she had pubhshed a dramatic poem entitled 
"Vivia Perpetua," in which she brings out the trials, 
sufferings, and faith of the early martyrs. 

The hymn " Nearer, my Grod, to Thee," was furnished 
Charles Fox and published by him in 1841 in his " Hymns 
and Anthems." At that time no particular attention was 
given it, but gi'aduaUy it attained a zenith of popularity 
from which it must ever shine. 

Her sister died in 1847 of consumption. During her 
sickness Mrs. Adams's care for her was unceasing. Their 
attachment in life had been so gi'eat that she never recov- 
ered from the loss of her sister, and gradually declining, 
she also died two years later ; but even to death's door her 
praise to Grod bui'st forth in song. 

As aU that was mortal of Mrs. Sarah Flower Adams was 
laid to rest, the following song of hers, expressing much the 
same sentiment of " Nearer, my G-od, to Thee," was sung : 

He sendeth sun, He sendeth. shower ; 
■Alike they're needful to the flower ; 
And joys and tears alike are sent 
To give the soul fit nourishment. 
As conies to me or cloud or sun, 
Father, Thy will, not mine, be done. 




k 





HISTORY OF FAVORITES IN SONG AND VERSE. 

Oh, ne'er will I at life repine, 
Enough that Thou hast made it mine ; 
"Where falls the shadow cold in death, 
I yet will sing with fearless breath ; 
As comes to me or shade or sun, 
Father, Thy will, not mine, be done. 




"WATCHMAN, TELL US OF THE NIGHT," 

By Sir John Bowring, who was born 1792, at Exeter. 
He was from early youth much advanced, past his years, 
in learning and perceptibility. Under the influence of 
early Christian training he was a devout worshipper, and 
carried with every action through life a faith that by 
Christian consistency only could great ends be attained. 
His life was most successful, and positions of honor were 
accorded him. From a member of Parliament he was sent 
as Consul to Canton, and later became Grovernor of Hong 
Kong. 

The hymn was written in his thirty-third year, and to a 
degree expresses his Christian watchfulness. He seemed 
ever to be perceiving and anticipating the glories of Grod. 




THAT SWEET STORY OF OLD. 
One of the most beautiful of Sunday School hymns is 

I think when I read that sweet story of old, 

When Jesus dwelt here among men. 
How He called little children as lambs to His fold, 

I should like to have been with Him then. 

I wish that His hand had been put on my head. 
And that I had been placed on His knee 

And that I might have seen His Mnd look when He said, 
" Let the little ones come unto me." 







"I WANT TO BE AN ANGEL." 

Yet still to His footstool in prayer I may go, 

And ask for a share in His love ; 
And if I thus earnestly seek Him below, 

I shall hear Him and see Him above. 

In that beautiful place He is gone to prepare 

For all who are washed and forgiven ; 
And many dear children are gathering there. 

For of such is the kingdom of heaven. 

But thousands and thousands who wander and fall, 

Never heard of that heavenly home ; 
I should like them to know there is room for them all. 

And that Jesus has bid them to come. 

I long for that blessed and glorious time — 

The fairest, the brightest, the best — 
When the dear little children of every clime 

Shall crowd to His arms and be blessed. 



These are tlie words in full, and jnst as originally writ- 
ten. The author, Mrs. Jemima Luke, composed them while 
riding in a stage-coach on her way to a neighboring vil- 
lage school. It was her desire, as she was much interested 
in mission work, to write a song for this school that would 
enthuse a Christian interest. Inspired by this desire, she 
wrote the hymn under the circumstances named, and many 
thousand happy hearts have attested to the efficacy of the 
motive for which it was written. In some collections it 
has been eiToneously attributed to Mrs. Judson. 



"I WANT TO BE AN ANGEL" 

Was written on April 19th, 1845, by Mrs. Sydney P. 
Grill, who at that time was in Philadelphia, Pa. The ex- 
pression, " I want to be an angel," was just then made 
widely popular by an article that was going the rounds of 



^ 





HISTOBT OF FAVORITES IN SONG AND VERSE. 





the Sunday-scliool papers, written by Dr. Irenaeus Prime. 
It was as follows : "A child sat in the door of a cottage 
at the close of a summer Sabbath. The twilight was fad- 
ing, and as the shades of evening darkened, one after 
another of the stars stood in the sky and looked down on 
the child in his thoughtful mood. He was looking up at 
the stars and counting them as they came, tiU there were 
too many to be counted, and his eyes wandered all over 
the heavens, watching the bright worlds above. They 
seemed just like ' holes in the floor of heaven to let the 
glory through,' but he knew better. Yet he loved to look 
up there, and was so absorbed, that his mother called to 
him and said : 

" * My son, what are you thinking of ! ' 

" He started as if suddenly aroused from sleep, and an- 
swered : 

" ' I was thinking ' 

" ' Yes,' said his mother, ' I know you were thinking, but 
what were you thinking about ! ' 

" ' Oh,' said he, and his little eyes sparkled with the 
thought, ' I want to be an angel.' 

" 'And why, my son, would you be an angel I ' 

" ' Heaven is up there, is it not, mother, and there the 
angels live and love Grod, and are happy ? I do wish I was 
good, and God would take me up there, and let me wait 
on Him forever.' 

" The mother called him to her knee, and he leaned on 
her bosom and wept. She wept too, and smoothed the soft 
hair of his head as he stood there, and kissed his forehead, 
and then told him that if he would give his heart to Grod, 
now while he was young, the Saviour would forgive all 
his sins and take him up to heaven when he died, and he 
would then be with God forever, 

" The mother took the child to his chamber, and soon 
he was asleep, dreaming perhaps of angels and heaven. 
A few months afterward sickness was on him, and the light 





"FROM GREENLAND'S ICY MOUNTAINS." 




of that cottage, the joy of that mother's heart, went out. 
He breathed his last in her arms, and as he took her part- 
ing kiss, he whispered in her ear : 

" ' I am going to be an angel.' " 

Mrs. Gill was teacher in Sunday-school of an infant 
class. The subject was' "Angels," and during the lesson 
hour one of the little ones repeated the popular expression, 
" I want to be an angel." Soon after this same child died, 
and the hymn was composed and sung at its funeral. 



t 



"FROM GREENLAND'S ICY MOUNTAINS." 

A BEAUTIFUL description of this we take verbatim from a 
voluoG entitled, "Story of Hymns," published by the 
American Tract Society, as given in an American religious 
magazine, which is as follows : 

" It does not necessarily take a lifetime to accomplish 
immortality. A brave act done in a moment, a courage- 
ous word spoken at the fitting time, a few lines which can 
be written on a sheet of note-paper, may give one a death- 
less name. Such was the case with Reginald Heber, known 
far and wide, wherever the Christian religion has pene- 
trated, by his unequalled missionary hymn, ' From Grreen- 
land's Icy Mountains,' so dear to every heart, so certain to 
live, while a benighted man remains to whom Christ's story 
has not yet been wafted. It was written in a parlor, with 
conversation going on around its author, and in a few min- 
utes' time. 

" Reginald Heber, then thirty-five years old, was visit- 
ing his father-in-law. Dr. Shipley, in Wrexham, having 
left his own charge at Hodnet a short time in order to de- 
liver some lectures in Dr. Shipley's church. HaK a dozen 
friends were gathered in the little rectory parlor one Satur- 
day afternoon, when Dr. Shipley turned to Hober, know- 
ing the ease with which he composed, and asked him if he 






HISTORY OF FAVORITES IN SONG AND VERSE. 




could not write some missionary lines for his chnrcli to 
sing the next morning, as he was going to preach upon 
the subject of Missions. This was not very long notice to 
give to a man to achieve the distinguishing work of his 
life, and in the few moments which followed, Heber builded 
better than he knew. Retiring to a corner of the room, 
he wrote three verses of his hymn, and returning read 
them to his companions, only altering the one word, sav- 
age, to heathen, in the second verse. 

" ' There, there,' said Dr. Shipley, ' that will do very well.' 
But Heber, replying that the sense was not quite com- 
plete, retired for a few moments, and then returned with 
the glorious bugle-blast of the fourth verse : 

Waft, waft, ye winds, His story, 

And you, ye waters, roll, 
TiU like a sea of glory 

It spreads from pole to pole ; 
Till o'er our ransomed nature 

The Lamb, for sinners slain, 
Redeemer, King, Creator, 

In bliss returns to reign. Amen. 

" It was printed that evening, and sung the next morn- 
ing by the people of Wrexham church." 

From Greenland's icy mountains, 

From India's coral strand, 
Where Afric's sunny fountains 

RoU down their golden sand, 
From many an ancient river, 

From many a palmy plain. 
They eaU us to deliver 

Their land from error's chain. 

What though the spicy breezes 

Blow soft o'er Java's isle, 
Though every prospect pleases, 

And only man is vile ; 



1 






THE STAB-SPANGLED BANNER. 

In vain, witli lavish kindness, 
The gifts of God are strewn ; 

The heathen, in his bhndness, 
Bows down to wood and stone. 

Can we, whose souls are lighted 

By wisdom from on high. 
Can we to man benighted 

The lamp of life deny ? 
Salvation ! O salvation ! 

The joyful sound proclaim. 
Till earth's remotest nation 

Has learned Messiah's name. 

Waft, waft, ye winds. His story. 

And you, ye waters, roU, 
Till, Kke a sea of glory, 

It spreads from pole to pole ; 
Till o'er our ransomed nature 

The Lamb, for sinners slain, 
Eedeemer, King, Creator, 

In bhss returns to reign. 




T 



THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER. 

In 1814, vyhen the Britisli fleet was at tlie mouth of the 
Potomac River, and intended to attack Baltimore, Mr. 
Key and Mr. Skinner were sent in a vessel, with a flag of 
truce, to obtain the release of some prisoners the English 
had taken in their expedition against Washington. They 
did not succeed, and were told that they would be detained 
till after the attack had been made on Baltimore. Ac- 
cordingly, they went in their own vessel, strongly guarded, 
with the British fleet as it sailed up the Patapsco : and 
when they came within sight of Ft. McHenry, a short dis- 
tance below the city, they could see the American flag dis- 
tinctly flying on the ramparts. As the day closed in the 
bombardment of the fort commenced, and Mr. Key and 






HISTORY OF FAVORITES IN SONG AND VERSE. 




Mr. Skinner remained on deck all night, watching with 
deep anxiety every shell that was fired. While the bom- 
bardment continued, it was sufficient proof that the fort 
had not surrendered. It suddenly ceased some time be- 
fore day ; but as they had no communication with any of 
the enemy's ships, they did not know whether the fort 
had surrendered, or the attack upon it had been abandoned. 
They paced the deck the rest of the night in painful sus- 
pense, watching with intense anxiety for the return of day. 
At length the light came and they saw that " our flag was 
still there," and soon they were informed that the attack 
had failed. In the fervor of the moment, Mr. Key took 
an old letter from his pocket, and on its back wi'ote the 
most of this celebrated song, finishing it as soon as he 
reached Baltimore. He showed it to his friend Judge 
Nicholson, who was so pleased with it that he placed it at 
once in the hands of the printer, and in an hour after, it 
was all over the city, and hailed with enthusiasm, and took 
its place at once as a national song. 

THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNEK, 

Oh ! say, can you see by the dawn's early light, 

What so proudly we hail'd at the twihght's last gleaming, 
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the periUous fight, 

O'er the ramparts we watch'd were so gallantly streaming ? 
And the rocket's red glare, and bombs bursting in air, 

Gave proof thro' the night that our flag was still there ! 
Oh ! say, does the star-spangled banner yet wave 

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave ? 

On the shore dimly seen thro' the mist of the deep. 

Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes, 
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, 

As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses ? 
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, 

In full glory reflected, now shines in the stream ; 
'Tis the star-spangled banner. Oh ! long may it wave 

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 






HISTORY OF "SWEET BY-AND-BY." 




And wliere is tliat band who so vauntingly swore, 

'Mid the havoc of war and the battle's confusion, 
A home and a countiy they'd leave us no more ? 

Their blood has wash'd out their foul footsteps' pollution 
No refuge could save the hii'ehng and slave, 

From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave, 
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave 

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 

Oh ! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand. 

Between their loved home and the war's desolation ; 
Blest with victory and peace, may the Heaven-rescued land 

Praise the power that made and preserved us a" nation. 
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just. 

And this be our motto, " In God is our tinist." 
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 

O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 




HISTORY OF "SWEET BY-AND-BY." 

Me. Bennett and Mr. Webster, a music wiiter, were in- 
timate friends. The latter was subject to despondency. 
One day be came in to wbere bis friend Bennett was at 
business — while in one of bis melancholy moods — 

" What is the matter now ! " Bennett said, noticing bis 
sad countenance. 

" No matter," said Webster ; " it will be right by-and-by." 

"Yes, that sweet by-and-by," said Bennett. "Would 
not that sentiment make a good hymn, Webster 1 " 

" Maybe it would," replied Webster indifferently. 

Turning to the desk — Bennett wrote the three verses to 
the hymn, — and handed them to Webster. When he 
read them his whole demeanor changed. Stepping to his 
desk, he began to write the notes. Having finished them, 
he requested his viohn, and played the melody. It was not 
over thirty minutes from the first thoughts of the hymn 





HISTOBY OF FAVORITES IN SONG AND VERSE. 



before the two friends, and two others who had come in, 
in the meantime, were singing all the parts together. 

A bystander, who had been attracted by the music, and 
listened in tearful silence, remarked, " That hymn is im- 
mortal." It is now sung in every land under the sun. 




SUWA^nEE RIVER. 

Quite interesting is the history of the darky melody, 
" Suwanee Eiver," from the fact that the song was written 
and the name fitted to it afterwards. It is not often that 
an author finds his subject after his article has been penned, 
but in this case it was so. We give in a conversation be- 
tween two friends the circumstances which gave it its 
name. 

" Did you ever hear how ' Suwanee Eiver ' was wiitten ? " 

" Do not think I ever did." 

"Well, Steph Foster — Stephen C. Foster was his full 
name — was in the zenith of his popularity when he wrote 
the words," said my friend to me. " He had written the 
song in the frame house on Sundusky street, in Allegheny, 
but he couldn't find the name of a river that suited him. 
Finally he went over to the office of his brother, Morrison 
Foster, sat down on his desk, and said: 'Morrison, I've 
got a new darky song here, and it's complete except the 
name of the river. I want a Southern river with only two 
or three syllables. Grive me one, won't you % ' 

" Morrison suggested several, but they didn't suit. Then 
he took down an atlas, ran his eye over a map of the 
Southern States for a few minutes and finally said: 
' Here's a river in Florida by the name of Suwanee ; how 
will that do?' 

" ' That's it, that's it,' exclaimed the song-writer, jumping 
from the desk. ' It's just what I want,' and picking up a 






THE TWO ANGELS. 

pen, he inserted tlie name of tlie river that has since be- 
come the title of one of the sweetest and most pathetic of 
melodies. I believe that Stephen C. Foster never thought 
very much of the piece himself until after it had taken its 
place among the popular songs of the century." 




THE TWO ANGELS. 

Besides the sweet sentiment contained in these verses, 
there is also connected with the poem a touching and in- 
teresting history. You wiU find in reading the department, 
" Homes of Our Authors," that Mr. Longfellow and Mr, 
Lowell were near neighbors in Cambridge. In a social as 
well as a Hterary sense, they were the warmest of friends, 
and the closest relation existed between the two families. 
On the night of Mrs. Lowell's death a child was born to 
Mr. Longfellow, and this gave subject to the beautiful Hues. 
The first angel represents the child of Mr. Longfellow, and 
the second one spoken of as leaving the house, referred to 
the spirit of Mrs. Lowell. The friend referred to is Mr. 
Lowell. As a reply to this poem Mr. Lowell wrote "After 
the Buiial." 

THE TWO ANGELS. 

Two angels, one of Life and one of Death, 
Passed o'er our village as tlie morning broke, 

Tlie dawn was on their faces, and beneath, 
The sombre houses hearsed with plumes of smoke. 

Their attitude and aspect were the same, 
-Alike their features and their robes of white ; 

But one was crowned with amaranth, as with flame 
And one with asphodels, hke flakes of Hght. 

I saw them pause on their celestial way ; 

Then said I, Avith deep fear and doubt oppressed. 






HISTORY OF FAVORITES IN SONG AND VERSE. 




" Beat not so loud, my heart, lest thou betray 
The place where thy beloved are at rest ! " 

And he who wore the crown of asphodels, 
Descending, at my door began to knock, 

And my soul sank within me, as in weUs 

The waters sink before an earthquake's shock. 

I recognized the nameless agony, 

The terror and the tremor and the pain. 

That oft before had filled or haunted me. 
And now returned with threefold strength again. 

The door I opened to my heavenly guest, 
And listened, for I thought I heard God's voice ; 

And, knowing whatsoe'er He sent was best. 
Dared neither to lament nor to rejoice. 

Then with a smile, that filled the house with hght, 
" My errand is not Death, but Life," he said. 

And ere I answered, passing out of sight, 
On his celestial embassy he sped. 

'Twas at thy door, O friend ! and not at mine. 
The angel with the amaranthine wreath. 

Pausing, descended, and with voice divine, 
"Whispered a word that had a sound Hke Death. 

Then f eU upon the house a sudden gloom, 
A shadow on those features fair and thin ; 

And softly, from that hushed and darkened room. 
Two angels issued, where but one went in. 

AH is of God ! If He but wave His hand. 
The mists collect, the rain f aUs thick and loud, 

TlU, with a smile of hght on sea and land, 
Lo ! He looks back from the departing cloud. 

Angels of Life and Death ahke are His ; 

Without His leave they pass no thi-eshold o'er ; 
Who, then, would wish or dare, beheving this. 

Against His messengers to shut the door ? 







"AFTER THE BUBIAL." 



"AFTER THE BURIAL." 

Yes, faith is a goodly anchor, 

Where skies are as sweet as a psabn, 

At the bows it lolls so stalwart. 
In bluff broad-shouldered calm. 

And when o'er breakers to leeward 
The scattered surges are hurled, 

It may keep oiu- head to the tempest. 
With its grip on the base of the world. 

But after the shipwreck, tell me 

What help in its iron thews. 
Still true to the broken hawser. 

Deep down among seaweed and ooze ? 

In the breaking gulfs of sorrow. 
When the helpless feet stretch out, 

And you find in the deeps of darkness 
No footing so soHd as doubt — 

Then better one spar of memory ; 

One broken plank of the past — 
That our poor hearts may cHng to, 

Tho' hopeless of shore at last. 

To the spirit its splendid conjectures, 
To the heart its sweet despair. 

Its tears on the thin worn locket, 
With its beauty of deathless hair. 

Immortal ! I feel it, and know it ; 

Who doubts it of such as she ! 
But that's the pang's very secret — 

Immortal away from me. 

There is a httle ridge in the church-yard, 
'Twould scarce stay a child in its race, 

But to me and my thoughts 'tis wider 
Than the star-sown vague of space. 






MISTOBT OF FAVORITES IN SONG AND VERSE. 



Your logic, my friend, is perfect ; 

Your moral most di*earily time ; 
But the earth that stops my darling's ears, 

Makes mine insensate, too. 

Console if you will, I can bear it, 
- 'Tis a weU-meant alms of breath ; 
But not all the preaching since Adam 
Has made death other than death. 

Communion in spirit ! Forgive me, 
But I who am sickly and weak 

Would give aU my income from dreamland 
For her rose-leaf pahn on my cheek. 

That little shoe in the comer, 
So worn and wrinkled and brown. 

Its motionless hoUow confronts you, 
And argues your wisdom down. 




THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 

When Mr. Longfellow was quite a young man and teach- 
ing, lie passed every morning, noon, and evening by the 
blacksmith's shop, which was on the road between his 
home and school. His daily passing and re-passing soon 
made him familiar with the " smithy," and often he would 
stop and pass a few moments in friendly chat and watch- 
ing him work. These circumstances gave rise to the poem. 
Some simple memoir has been put up in honor of the 
blacksmith, and from part of the "spreading chestnut 
tree " a chair was made and given Mr. Longfellow by the 
children of Cambridge on his seventy-second birth-day. 
He gave it a prominent place in his library, where it can 
be seen to-day. 




-1^ 





THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 



THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 

Under a spreading chestnut tree 

The village smithy stands ; 
The smith, a mighty man is he, 

With large and sinewy hands ; 
And the muscles of his brawny arms 

Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long, 

His face is like the tan ; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat, 

He earns whate'er he can, 
And looks the whole world in the face, 

For he owes not any man. 

Week in, week out, fi'om mom till night. 
You can hear his bellows blow ; 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge. 
With measured beat and slow, 

Like a sexton ringing the village beU, 
When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school 

Look in at the open door ; 
They love to see the flaming forge, 

And hear the bellows roar, 
And catch the burning sparks that fly 

Like chaff from a threshing floor. 

He goes on Simday to the church. 

And sits among his boys ; 
He hears the parson pray and preach, 

He hears his daughter's voice. 
Singing in the village choir, 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice, 
Singiag in Paradise ! 







HISTOBY OF FAVORITES IN SONG AND VEBSE. 

He needs must think of her once more, 

How in the grave she lies ; 
And with his hard, rough har.d he wipes 

A tear out of his eyes. 

Toiling, — ^rejoicing, — sorrowing, 
Onward through life he goes ; 

Each morning sees some task begun. 
Each evening sees it close ; 

Something attempted, something done 
Has earned a night's repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
For the lesson thou hast taught ! 

Thus at the flaming forge of life 
Our fortunes must be wrought ; 

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought ! 




A PRISONER FOR DEBT. 

This poem by Mr. Whittier was suggested by seeing an 
old man thrust in a prison near his home and kept there 
for months because he had some trifling debt which he 
was unable to pay. It is said that this poem by Mr. 
Whittier in America and some of Charles Dickens's books 
in England did more to break up the custom of imprison- 
ing people for debt than any other influence. 

THE PEISONEE FOE DEBT. 

Look on him ! — through his dungeon grate 

Feebly and cold, the morning hght 
Comes stealing round him, dim and late. 

As if it loathed the sight. 
Reclining on his strawy bed. 
His hand upholds his drooping head, — 
His bloodless cheek is seamed and hard, 
Unshorn his gray, neglected beard ; 







A PRISONER FOR DEBT. 

And o'er his bony fingers flow 
His long, dishevelled locks of snow. 

No grateful fire before him glows, 
And yet the winter's breath is chill ; 

And o'er his half -clad person goes 
The frequent ague thrill ! 

Silent, save ever and anon, 

A sound, half mvumnr and half groan, 

Forces apart the painful grip 

Of the old sufferer's bearded Up ; 

sad and crushing is the fate 

Of old age chained and desolate ! 

Just God ! why hes that old man there ? 

A murderer shares his prison bed, 
Whose eyeballs, through his horrid hair, 

Grieam on him, fierce and red ; 
And the rude oath and heartless jeer 
Fall ever on his loathing ear. 
And, or in wakefulness or sleep. 
Nerve, flesh, and pulses thriLL and creep 
Whene'er that ruffian's tossing hmb, 
Crimson with murder, touches him ! 

What has the gray-haired prisoner done ? 

Has murder stained his hands with gore 
Not so ; his crime's a fouler one ; 

God made the old man poor ! 
For this he shares a felon's ceU, — 
The fittest earthly type of heU ! 
For this, the boon for which he poiu-ed 
His yoimg blood on the invader's sword, 
And counted Ught the fearful cost, — 
His blood-gained hberty is lost ! 

And so, for such a place of rest. 

Old prisoner, dropped thy blood as rain 

On Concord's field, and Bunker's crest. 
And Saratoga's plain ? 







HISTORY OF FAVORITES IN SONG AND VERSE. 

Look forth, thou man of many scars, 
Through thy dim dimgeon's iron bars ; 
It must be joy, in sooth, to see 
Yon monument upreared to thee, — 
Piled granite and a prison cell, — 
The land repays thy service weU ! 

Go, ring the beUs and fire the guns. 
And fling the starry banner out ; 

Shout " Freedom ! " till your hsping ones 
Give back their cradle-shout ; 

Let boastful eloquence declaim 

Of honor, liberty, and fame ; 

Still let the poet's strain be heard. 

With glory for each second word. 

And everything vdth breath agree 

To praise " our glorious liberty ! " 

But when the patron cannon jars, 
That prison's cold and gloomy waU, 

And through its grates the stripes and stars 
Rise on the wind and fall, — 

Think ye that prisoner's aged ear 

Rejoices in the general cheer ? 

Think ye his dim and failing eye 

Is kindled at your pageantry ? 

Sorrowing of soul, and chained of limb. 

What is your carnival to him ? 

Down with the law that binds him thus ! 

Unworthy freemen, let it find 
No refuge from the withering curse 

Of God and human kind ! 
Open the prison's living tomb. 
And usher from its brooding gloom 
The victims of your savage code 
To the free sun and air of God ; 
No longer dare as crime to brand 
The chastening of the Almighty's hand. 






CUBIOUS LITEBART PBOBVCTION. 




CURIOUS LITERAEY PRODUCTION. 

[The following is one of the most remarkable compositions ever written. 
It evinces an ingenuity peculiarly its own. The initial letters spell "My 
boast is in the glorious cross of Christ." The words in italic, when read on 
the left-hand side from top to bottom, and on the right-hand side from bottom 
to top, form the Lord's Prayer complete :] 

Make known the gospel truth, our Father King ; 

Yield up Thy grace, dear Father, from above ; 
Bless us with hearts wJiich feelingly can sing : 

" Our li£e Thou art forever, Grod of Love." 
Assuage our grief in love for Christ, we pray. 

Since the Prince of Heaven and Glory died. 
Took all sins and hallowed the display. 

Infinite being, first man, and then was crucified. 
Stupendous Grod ! Thy grace and power make known ; 

In Jesus' name let all the world rejoice. 
Now labor in Thy Heavenly kingdom own. 

That blessed kingdom, for Thy saints the choice 
How vile to cotne to Thee is all our cry ; 

Enemies to ThyseM and all that's Thine ; 
Graceless our tvill, we hve for vanity ; 

Loathing the very &eing, evil ifi' design — 
O God, Thy will be done from earth to Heaven ; 

Reclining on the gospel let tis Hve, 
In earth from sin delivered and forgiven. 

Oh ! as Thyself, but teach us to forgive ; 
Unless its power temptation doth destroy, 

Sure is our fall into the depths of woe. 
Carnal in mind, we have not a glimpse of joy 

Raised against Heaven ; in ms no hope we know 
give us grace, and lead us on the way ; 

Shine on t<s with Thy love, and give us peace. 
Self, and this sin that rises against us, slay. 

Oh, grant each day our trespasses may cease ; 
Forgive our evil deeds, that oft we do ; 

Convince us daily of them, to our shame ; 
Help us with Heavenly bread, forgive us, too, 






W.^: 



EISTOBT OF FAVORITES IN SONG AND VERSE. 



Recurrent lusts ; and we'll adore Thy name. 
In Thy forgiveness we as saints can die, 

Since for us and our trespasses so high, 
Thy Son, our Saviour, died on Calvary. 




EVANGELINE. 



Longfellow's " Evangeline " was originally intended for 
Hawthorne, and was made of two pieces of history, the 
driving out of the Acadians, and the meeting of two lovers 
in a hospital after years of separation. Longfellow and 
another friend were talking of Hawthorne one day, and 
they thought this would be good material out of which 
Hawthorne could make a nice story, and it was agreed 
that they would have a little dinner and invite him to be 
present, and that the story should be touchingly told to 
see if they could not get Hawthorne interested in it. This 
was done, and some months, or perhaps years, went by 
when Mr. Longfellow met Hawthorne one day, and asked 
him if he thought he could make anything out of it. He 
replied that he could not, whereupon Mr. Longfellow told 
him that it had so impressed him, and had been on his 
mind so constantly, that if he, Hawthorne, was not going 
to use it, he believed he would himself. This he did, and 
gave to the world one of the finest tales in verse that ever 
came from an American vn'iter. With page after page of 
deep pathetic thought he follows the wanderings of two 
Acadian lovers who were separated by the invasion in 
their country. In their efforts to meet. Fate seems ever 
against thein, and their wanderings only end at their 
death. The whole is beautifully woven with bits of his- 
tory, and well will a few hours be spent by any one in be- 
coming familiar with Longfellow's " Evangeline." 






THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 



THE CHILDREN'S HOUR. 




Mk. Longfellow, in his poem of " The Children's Hour," 
describes his own three beautiful and charming daughters, 
as the cares of the day give place to an hour's romp and 
pleasure with papa. The loving and tender sentiment that 
rings in every verse, which seems hke the spoken language 
of our own soul, has made it one of the most popular and 
oft quoted of Mr. Longfellow's productions. The poet 
artist, Buchanan Read, with true brotherly appreciation, 
painted for Mr. Longfellow a picture of his girls just as he 
had described them. 



Grrave Alice, and laughing AUegre, 
And Edith with golden hair. 

You wiU see the painting now in Mr. Longfellow's home, 
and during his hfe it was one of his favorites of all the 
many pictures that adorned the house. 

THE CHILDREN'S HOUE. 

Between the dark and the daylight, 
Wlien the night is beginning to lower, 

Conies a pause ia the day's occupations, 
That is known as the children's hour. 




I hear in the chamber above me 

The patter of little feet ; 
The sound of a door that is opened, 

And voices soft and sweet. 

From my study I see in the lamplight, 
Descending the rude haU stau", 

Grave Alice, and laughing Allegre, 
And Edith with golden hair. 





HISTORY OF FAVORITES IN SONG AND VERSE, 



A whisper and then a silence, 
Yet I kaow by their merry eyes, 

They are plotting and planning together 
To take me by surprise. 

A sudden rush from the stairway ; 

A sudden raid from the hall ; 
By three doors left unguarded 

They enter my castle-wall. 

They climb up into my turret, 

O'er the arms and back of my chair ; 

If I try to escape, they surround me ; 
They seem to be everywhere. 

They almost devour me with kisses, 
Their arms about me entwiue, 

Tin I think of the Bishop of Bingen, 
In his Mouse-Tower on the Ehine. 

Do you think, blue-eyed banditti, 
Because you have scaled the wall, 

Such an old moustache as I am 
Is not a match for you all ? 





I have you fast in my fortress. 
And will not let you depart. 

But put you into the dujageon, 
In the round-tower of my heart. 

And there will I keep you forever — 

Yes, forever and a day ; 
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin, 

And moulder in dust away. 





ST. CATMEBINE BORNE BY ANGELS. 




ST. CATHERINE BORNE BY ANGELS. 

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE. 

[Accordiag to this legend, Catherine was a noble maiden of Alexandria, 
distinguished alike by birth, riches, beauty, and the rarest gifts of genius 
and learning. In the flower of her youth she consecrated herself to the ser- 
vice of her Eedeemer, and cheerfully suffered for His sake the loss of wealth, 
friends, and the esteem of the world. Banishment, imprisonment, and torture 
were in vain tried, to shake the constancy of her faith ; at last she was bound 
upon the torturing-wheel for a cruel death. But the angels descended, so 
says the story, rent the wheel, and bore her away through the air, far over 
the sea, to Mount Sinai, where her body was left to repose, and her soul 
ascended with them to heaven.] 

Slow througli the solemn air, in silence sailing, 
Borne by mysterious angels strong and fair, 

She sleeps at last, blest dreams her eyehds veiling. 
Above this weary world of strife and care. 

Lo, how she passeth ! dreamy, slow, and calm : 

Scarce wave those broad white wings, so silvery bright ; 

Those cloudy robes, in star-emblazoned folding, 
Sweep mistily athwart the evening Mght. 

Far, far below, the dim, forsaken earth, 

The foes that threaten, or the friends that weep ; 

Past, like a dream, the torture and the pain : 
For so He giveth His beloved sleep. 

The restless bosom of the surging ocean 

Gives back the image as the clouds float o'er, 

Hushing in glassy awe his troubled motion ; 
For one blest moment he complains no more. 

Like the transparent golden floor of heaven. 

His charmed waters He as in a dream. 
And ghstening wings, and starry robes unfolding, 

And serious angel eyes far downward gleam. 

O restless sea ! thou seemest all enchanted 
By that sweet vision of celestial rest ; 






HISTORY OF FAVORITES IN SONG AND VERSE, 





Where are the winds and tides tliy peace that haunted — 
So still thou seemest, so glorified and blest ! 

Ah, sea ! to-morrow, that sweet scene forgotten, 
Dark tides and tempests shall thy bosom rear ; 

And thy complaining waves, with restless motion, 
Shall toss their hands in their old wild despair. 

So o'er our hearts sometimes the sweet, sad story 

Of suffering saints borne homeward crowned and blest, 

Shines down in stillness with a tender glory. 
And makes a mirror there of breathless rest. 

For not alone in those old Eastern regions 

Are Christ's beloved ones tried by cross and chain ; 

In many a house are His elect ones hidden. 
His martyrs suffering in their patient pain. 

The rack, the cross, life's weary wrench of woe, 
The world sees not, as slow, from day to day. 

In calm, unspoken patience, sadly still. 
The loving spirit bleeds itself away. 

But there are hours when, from the heavens unfolding, 
Come down the angels with the glad release ; 

And we look upward, to behold in glory 

Our suffering loved ones borne away to peace. 

Ah, brief the calm ! The restless wave of feeling 
Rises again when the bright cloud sweeps by. 

And our unrestful sotds reflect no longer 
That tender vision of the upper sky. 

Espoused Lord of the pure saints in glory. 

To whom all faithful souls affianced are, 
Breathe down Thy peace into our restless spirits, 

And make a lasting, heavenly vision there. 

So the bright gates no more on us shall close ; 

No more the cloud of angels fade away ; 
And we shall walk, amid life's weary strife, 

In the calm hght of Thine eternal day. 






LINES ON A SKELETON. 



LINES ON A SKELETON. 

[This poem appeared in the London Morning Chronicle forty-five years 
ago. A reward of fifty guineas failed to bring out its authorship, nor is it 
yet known.] 

Behold this rnin ! 'Twas a skull, 
Once of ethereal spirit full, 
This naiTOw cell was Life's retreat, 
This space was Thought's mysterious seat ; 
What beauteous visions filled this spot, 
What dreams of pleasure, long forgot, 
Nor Hope, nor Love, nor Joy, nor Fear, 
Have left one trace of record here. 

Beneath this mouldering canopy 

Once shone the bright and busy eye ; 

But start not at the dismal void — 

If social Love that eye employed ; 

If with no lawless fire it gleamed, 

But through the dews of kindness beamed, 

That eye shall be forever bright 

When stars and suns have sunk in night. 

Within this hollow cavern hung 

The ready, swift and tuneful tongue. 

If Falsehood's honey it disdaiued. 

And where it could not praise, was chained ; 

If bold in virtue's cause it spoke. 

Yet gentle concord never broke ! 

This silent Tongue shall plead for thee 

When Time unveils Eternity. 

Say, did these fingers delve the mine ? 
Or with its envied rubies shine f 
To hew the rock, or wear the gem, 
Can httle now avail to them. 
But if the page of Truth they sought, 
Or comfort to the mourner brought. 
These hands a richer meed shall claim 
Than all that wait on Wealth or Fame. 






<^J 



266 EISTOBY OF FAVORITES IN SONG AND VERSE. 

Avails it, whether bare or shod, 
These feet the path of duty trod ? 
If from the bowers of Ease they fled, 
To seek Affliction's humble shed ; 
If Grandeur's guilty bribe they spumed, 
And home to Virtue's cot returned, 
These feet with angel's wings shaU vie. 
And tread the palace of the sky. 




SHAKESPEARE TO ANN HATHAWAY. 

Is there inne heavenne aught more rare 
Thanne thou sweete Nymphe of Avon fayre 
Is there oune earthe a Manne more trewe 
Thanne WiUy Shakspeare is toe you 

Though f yckle fortune prove unkynde 
StiUe dothe she leave herre wealthe behynde 
She neere the hearte eanne forme anew 
Norre make thye Willys love unnetrue 

Though Age withe witherd hand doe stryke 
The forme moste fayre the face moste bryghte 
Still dothe she leave unnetouchedde ande trewe 
Thy Willys love and freynshyppe too 

Though deathe withe neverre faylynge blowe 
Dothe Manne ande babe alyke brynge lowe 
Yette doth he take naughte butte hys due 
Ande strikes notte Willys hearte stille trewe 

Synce thenne noiTe forretune deathe noe Age 
Canne faythfuUe WUlys love asswage 
Thenne doe I hve ande dye forre you 
Thy Willye syneere ande moste trewe 

[The manuscript of the above lines is in the Chester Museum, and was 
photographed by Mr. Lancaster for Mr. W. Eiehardson, of Southowram, and 
presented to him by his old and dear theatrical friend, Mr. James Macaulay, 
recently deceased, as a memento of their united love for the immortal bard 
of Stratford. — Halifax Courier. '\ 




^'^^ 





DABLINa NELLIE GRAY. 



DAELING NELLIE GRAY. 





EvEEYBODY knows tMs beautiful and ever popular song, 
but few know of its origin or tbe circumstances under 
which it was written. Very few even know that Ben R. 
Hamby wrote the song away back in the fifties. At that 
time he was teacher in a Httle academy near Seven Mile, 
Butler County, Ohio. On his way from Cincinnati home, 
in reading the columns of the Cincinnati Commercial, his 
eye fell upon an account of a beautiful quadroon girl who 
had been torn away from her slave lover and carried to 
the Southern markets to be sold. The quadroon's name 
was Nellie Gray. The account worked Hamby up to such 
an extent that he utilized the incident as the subject of 
the song, the words of which were almost completed by 
the time he reached home. After a shght remodelhng and 
a few finishing touches, it was sent to a Chicago firm for 
their approval. He never received any retm*ns from it, 
and the first knowledge that he had of the words having 
become in the least popular, or even been used, was on a 
visit soon after to Columbus, Ohio. On calling on a young- 
lady acquaintance in that city, he requested her to sing 
something for him. She complied by saying she would 
sing him a sweet little song she had just received, and she 
remarked that, by a strange coincidence, it had been writ- 
ten by a person with the same name as his. She there- 
upon, much to his surprise, sang with a trained voice 
" NeUie G-ray." It is needless to say that the song was 
famous, and it made for its publishers some $30,000, It 
is said Hamby never received a doUar from the publishers. 
The most that he ever got was six printed copies of the 
song. 

Hamby came from rather a musical family. His father 
was compiler of the United Brothers' Hymn Book. Hamby 
himself composed a number of other songs, but none that 





-4 



HISTOBY OF FAVORITES IN SONG AND VERSE. 




ever reached tlie popularity of " Nellie Gray." He died a 
few years after the close of the war in obscurity and pov- 
erty. The fact that he was the Hamby that wrote the song 
was known to but a few intimate friends. His remains 
lie to-day in the little village cemetery at Westerville, Ohio, 
the place of his birth. His grave has no mark, and the 
stranger might search for it in vain unless it was pointed 
out to him. Nature has covered it with green grass and 
lovely flowers. The song he left is the only monument 
to his memory. 



THE KINGS OF ENGLAND. 

As a matter of historical fact, given in such language 
and form that wiU aid any one in remembering the order 
of the Kings of England, we give the following familiar 
rhyme : 

THE KINGS OF ENGLAND. 

First WiUiam tlie Norman, 

Then William, his son, 
Henry, Stephen, and Henry ; 

Then Richard and John, 
Next Henry the Third, 

Edwards, one, two, and three. 
And again after Richard 

Three Henrys we see. 
Two Edwards, third Richard, 

If rightly I guess, 
Two Henrys, sixth Edward, 

Queen Mary, Queen Bess. 
Then Jamie, the Scotchman, 

Then Charles, whom they slew, 
Yet received after Cromwell 

Another Charles, too. 
Next James the Second 

Ascended the throne, 






VERITABLE FOEM OF POEMS. 



Then good William and Maiy 

Together came on, 
TUl Anne, Georges four, 

And fourth WiUiam all past, 
God sent Queen Victoria. 

May she long be the last. 




A VERITABLE POEM OF POEMS. 

The following poem of poems, or a poem composed from 
a line of different poems, is quite interesting. It is said 
that the author spent one year in hunting up and fitting 
together the lines, and quite an instructive and interesting 
evening entertainment can be had by reading the poem 
and letting each in the social gathering guess who is the 
author of the different lines. Then refer to the key given 
below and see how many are right. 




A VEEITABLE POEM OF POEMS. 

1 — ^Why aU this toil for triumphs of an hour ? 
2 — Life's a short summer, man a flower. 
3 — ^By turns we catch the vital breath, and die, 
4 — The cradle and the tomb, alas ! so nigh. 
5 — To be is better far than not to be, 
6 — ^'Though all man's life may seem a tragedy ; 
7 — But Hght cares speak when mighty cares are dumb, 
8 — The bottom is but shallow whence they come. 
9 — Your fate is but the common fate of all ; 
10 — Unmingled joys here to no man befall. 
11 — ^Nature to each allots his proper sphere, 
12 — Fortune makes folly her peculiar care ; 
13 — Custom does often reason overrule, 
14 — And throw a cruel sxmsMne on a fool. 





HISTOBT OF FAVORITES IN SONG AND VEBSE. 




15 — Live well, how long or short, permit to Heaven, 

16 — They who forgive most shall be most forgiven. 

17 — Sin may be clasped so close we cannot see its face — 

18 — ^VUe intercourse where virtue has not placed ; 

19 — Then keep each passion down, however dear ; 

20 — Thou pendidum betwixt a smile and tear ; 

21 — ^Her sensual snares, let faithless pleasure lay 

22 — ^With craft and skill to ruiu and betray ; 

23 — Soar not too high to faU, but stoop to rise. 

24 — ^We masters grow of all that we despise. 

25 — Oh, then renounce that impious self-esteem ; 

26 — Eiches have wings, and grandeur is a dream. 

27 — Think not ambition wise because 'tis brave, 

28 — The path of glory leads but to the grave. 

29 — ^What is ambition ? 'Tis a glorious cheat, 

30 — Only destructive to the brave and great. 

31 — ^What's all the gaudy ghtter of a crown ? 

32 — The way to bliss lies not on beds of down. 

33 — How long we Hve, not years, but actions tell ; 

34 — That man Uves twice who hves the first hfe well. 

35 — Make, then, while yet ye may, your God your friend, 

36 — ^Whom Christians worship, yet not comprehend. 

37 — The trust that's given guard, and to yourself be just ; 

38 — For, hve we how we can, yet die we must. 



1, Young ; 2, Doctor Johnson ; 3, Pope ; 4, Prior ; 5, SeweU. ; 
6, Spenser ; 7, Daniel ; 8, Sir Walter Raleigh ; 9, Longfellow ; 10, 
Southwell ; 11, Congreve ; 12, Churchill ; 13, Rochester ; 14, Ai-m- 
strong; 15, MUton; 16, BaUy; 17, Trench; 18, Somerville; 19, 
Thomson ; 20, Byron ; 21, Smollett ; 22, Crabbe ; 23, Massiuger ; 
24, Crowley ; 25, Beattie ; 26, Cowper ; 27, Sir Walter Davenant ; 
28, Gray ; 29, WUhs ; 30, Addison ; 31, Diyden ; 32, Francis 
Quarles ; 33, Watkius ; 34, Herrick ; 35, WiUiam Mason ; 36, HiU ; 
37, Dana ; 38, Shakespeare. 







A TOUCH OF NATURE. 



A TOyCH OF NATURE. 

" In the early spring of 1863, wlien the Confederate and 
Federal armies were confronting each other on the oppo- 
site hills of Stafford and Spottsylvania, two bands chanced 
one evening, at the same hour, to begin to discourse sweet 
music on either bank of the river. A large crowd of the 
soldiers of both armies gathered to Hsten to the music, the 
friendly pickets not interfering, and soon the bands began 
to answer each other. First the band on the northern 
bank would play ' Star- Spangled Banner,' ' Hail Columbia,' 
or some other national air, and at its conclusion the ' boys 
in blue ' would cheer most lustily. And then the band on 
the southern bank would respond with ' Dixie ' or ' Bonnie 
Blue Flag,' or some other Southern melody, and the ' boys 
in gi*ay ' would attest their approbation with an ' old Con- 
federate yell.' But presently one of the bands struck up, 
in sweet and plaintive notes which were wafted across the 
beautiful Rappahannock, were caught up at once by the 
other band and swelled into a grand anthem which touched 
every heart: 'Home, Sweet Home!' At the conclusion 
of this piece there went up a simultaneous shout from Ijotli 
sides of the river — cheer followed cheer, and those hiUs, 
which had so recently resounded with hostile guns, echoed 
and re-echoed the glad acclaim. A chord had been struck 
responsive to which the hearts of enemies — enemies then 
— could beat in unison ; and, on both sides of the river, 

Something down the soldier's cheek 
Washed off the stains of powder." 




Two armies covered hill and plain 
Where Rappahannock's waters 

Ran deeply crimsoned with the staia 
Of battle's recent slaughters. 





SISTOBY OF FAVOBITES IN SONG AND VEBSE. 



The Summer clouds lay pitclied like tents 

In meads of heavenly azure ; 
And each dread gun of tlje elements 

Slept in its hid embrasure. 

The breeze so softly blew it made 

No forest leaf to quiver, 
And the smoke of the random cannonade 

RoUed slowly from the river. 

And now where circKng hills looked down 

With cannon grimly planted, 
O'er listless camp and silent town 

The golden sunset slanted. 

When on the fervid air there came 
A strain, now rich, now tender, 

The music seemed itself aflame 
With day's departing splendor. 

A Federal band, which eve and morn 
Played measures brave and nimble. 

Had just struck up with flute and horn 
And Mvely clash of cymbal. 

Down flocked the soldiers to the bank 

Till margined by its pebbles, 
One wooded shore was blue with " Tanks," 

And one was gray with " Rebels." 





Then aU was still ; and then the band. 
With movement light and tricky. 

Made stream and forest, hiU and strand, 
Reverberate with " Dixie." 

The conscious stream, with burnished glow, 

Went proudly o'er its pebbles, 
But thrilled throughout its deepest flow 

With yelling of the Rebels. 





A TOUCH OF NATURE. 

Again, a pause, and theii again 
The trumpet pealed sonorous, 

And " Yankee Doodle " was the strain 
To which the shore gave chorus. 

The laughing ripple shoreward flew 
To kiss the shining pebbles — 

Loud shrieked the swarming boys ia blue 
Defiance to the Rebels. 




And yet once more the bugle sang 

Above the stormy riot ; 
No shout upon the evening rang — 

There reigned a holy quiet. 

The sad, slow stream its noiseless flood 
Poured o'er the glistening pebbles ; 

All sUent now the Yankees stood, 
All silent stood the Rebels. 




No unresponsive soul had heard 
That plaintive note's appealing. 

So deeply " Home, Sweet Home " had stirred 
The hidden founts of feeling. 

Or blue or gray, the soldier sees. 

As by the wand of f any. 
The cottage 'neath the live-oak trees, 

The cabin by the prairie. 

Or cold or warm his native skies 

Bend in their beauty o'er him ; 
Seen through the tear-mist in his eyes 

His loved ones stand before him. 

As fades the iris after rain 

In April's tearful weather, 
The vision vanished as the strain 

And dayhght died together. 





t 



HISTORY OF FAVOBITES IN SONG AND VERSE. 

But memory, waked by music's art, 
Expressed in simplest numbers. 

Subdued the sternest Yankee's heart, 
Made light the Rebel's slumbers. 

And fair the form of music shines. 
That bright, celestial creature. 

Who still, 'mid war's embattled lines. 
Gave this one touch of nature. 




"OLD IRONSIDES." 

The government liad decided to break np tlie old war 
frigate " Constitution," and the circumstances so worked 
up Dr. Holmes that lie wrote that strong appeal for its 
preservation found in the poem. When he first pubhcly 
read the verses, into which he put all possible vigor and 
pathos, it is said the effect was as of an electric shock. 
One can imagine the fire of patriotic indignation snapping 
from his eyes as he sarcastically exclaims : 

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down ! 

The production at once brought public sympathy to the 
old ship's rescue. The verses were printed by the leading 
papers and printed on handbills and freely scattered in 
Washington. The effect was magical and the ship was 
saved. Thus a few verses of poetry touched the hearts 
of the people and set ablaze the fire of patriotism, which 
it is doubtful if volumes of prose could have done. Surely 
poetry as weU as music has soothing charms of the highest 
magnitude. 





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S. T. SMITH 




"AMEBICA." 



"AMERICA." 




Eev. Dr. Samuel Smith, whose portrait we give our 
readers, is tlie author of our national hymn, "America." 
He was born in Boston, October 21, 1808, and from early 
hf e he gave his time to close attention to books. As a re- 
sult, he is a classical scholar of the highest rank, and quite 
conversant with the Latin, Grreek, Hebrew, French, 
Spanish, Grerman, and Italian languages. He has made 
two trips to the Old World, spending over three years in 
his extended researches for knowledge and familiarity 
with points of interest in history. His labors have been 
in the pulpit and editorial field. For eight years from 
1834 he was minister of a village Baptist Church of 
Waterville, Maine, and at the same time was Professor of 
Modern Languages in Colby University. He then moved 
to Newton Centre, Mass., which has since been his home, 
and for twelve years he was pastor there, and for a great 
part of that time was editor of the Christian Review. Dr. 
Smith has made many translations, and it was in this way 
that "America " was brought out. A friend in 1833 gave 
him some books of song used in schools in Grermany. In 
translating these he came across the music to oui* National 
Hymn, and then and there he put words to the music to 
suit his own beloved country, and the hymn that should 
live for ages to come was, little to the author's expectation, 
given to the world. There has been much discussion as 
to the nationality of the air. Some claim it for England, 
some for Prussia, and others for Russia. While it was 
known and used in aU of these countries and others of the 
Old World, the best critics ascribe the original strains to 
the Englishman, Henry Carey. Some think we should 
have music of our own adapted to our National Hymn, 
but many think there is beauty in combining the patriotic 
music of the mother-land and the daughter-land ; one fur- 






HISTOBY OF FAFOBITES IN SONG AND VERSE. 




nisMiig the words, the other the tune ; and so united they 
travel hand in hand down through the ages. 

Dr. Smith, we are glad to state, is enjoying the pleasure 
of a happy old age, and it has been eomplimentally said of 
him that " it is like receiving a liberal education to get one 
good look at his face." It gives us pleasure to present to 
our readers the words of "America," as engraved from the 
original manuscript, showing Dr. Smith's own hand- writ- 
ing and a fac-simile of the poem complete. 



SHERIDAN'S RIDE. 

While to most Americans Thomas Buchanan Eead has 
made this famous ride immortal in verse, few are ac- 
quainted with a very dramatic episode that was really the 
means of bringing on the battle which eventually led to 
that gallant ride of twenty miles. Miss Eebecca L. Wright, 
whose portrait and home we are pleased to be able to give 
to our readers, was at that time a young Quaker school- 
teacher in Winchester, Va. She and her mother were 
loyal, but a sister took sides with the Lost Cause. Greneral 
Sheridan becoming acquainted with the facts, and know- 
ing the intelligence and good judgment of Miss Wright, 
determined to communicate with her as to the strength 
and position of the enemy. A regular scout was sent to 
Millwood as near the lines as was expedient, and then the 
Greneral's message — a tiny note wrapped in tinfoil — was 
given a trusted darky. He was to carry it in his mouth, 
and to swallow it if stopped. He reached Miss Wright's 
school-room at noontime, and succeeded in gaining a pri- 
vate interview. She was reluctant to give any informa- 
tion, and would not until she had consulted her mother. 
Her first thought was that it was a trick, and she would 
be betrayed into the hands of the rebels, who then had 




-^s»* 





MRS. REBECCA WRIGHT BONSAL 





SHERIDAN'S RIDE. 

possession of the place, but tlie darky was so honest and 
straightforward that she promised an answer at 3 P. M. 
She was able to give the desired information most intelli- 
gently, from the fact that two evenings previous a rebel 
officer had spent the evening at their house, and many 
were the questions she had innocently asked and received 
truthful answers as to the Confederate forces, position, 
etc. Little did she then think of the great value they 
would soon be to her friends. But the world knows the 
result — ^how at daybreak, Monday, September 19th, 1864, 
"Winchester was awakened by the roar of the nation's 
guns, and how the command of Early was, as Sheridan 
himself expressed it, sent " Whirling through Winchester," 
with 4,500 lost, 2,500 of whom were prisoners. Not con- 
tent with victory, Sheridan pushed the enemy on a forced 
march to Fisher's Hill, and by strategy and bravery dis- 
lodged them from that formidable position,'and sent them 
scattered into the gaps of the Blue Eidge. Completely 
devastating the country, he returned and made a stand at 
a point about twenty miles south of Winchester. Here 
he left his army in command of General Wright, and, Oc- 
tober 15th, left for Washington, in answer to a call from 
the Secretary of War, to consult on important manoeuvres. 
Lee, however, could not make up his mind to give up the 
important territory of the Shenandoah Valley, and he sent 
Early back, reinforced by 10,000 men, to retrieve what he 
had lost. Sheridan left Washington by train the 18th of 
October, and on the morning of the 19th was riding- 
leisurely out of Winchester, when he heard the distinct 
boom of cannon. At first he thought it came from recon- 
noissance, little dreaming that his army was being at- 
tacked and beaten by his old foe. Early. Soon he met a 
number of stragglers from his army, and saw at once that 
the appalling marks of defeat and rout. He seemed to 
know that " his boys " could not fight and their trusted 
commander twenty miles away. Gathering the reins of 






EISTOBY OF FAVORITES IN SOJSfG AND VERSE. 




Ms coal-black charger, he gave him the word and the spur 
at the same time, and began that famous ride, shouting to 
the stragglers he met : 

" Face the other way, boys ! Face the other way ! "We 
are going back." And they did. 

The word went from one to another, from crowd to 
crowd for miles, and the scattered forces were soon re- 
formed and marched, not a cowering mob as three hours 
before, but with the tread of brave soldiers to meet the 
enemy, for they knew they were being led to victory, and 
a victory most complete it was. Early was completely 
routed, and the dead and captured left him but a mere 
handful of his proud band of the early morning. 

Such in brief are the events of Sheridan's " Valley Cam- 
paign " and his noted ride. 

The following letter from General Sheridan, of which we 
give an engraved copy, explains how much the information 
given by Miss Wright led to bringing it all about. The 
beautiful watch was presented to her by the General in 
1867, as a token of friendship and a reward for the valuable 
information given him. The government, through the 
sohcitation of Generals Grant and Sheridan, rewarded her 
heroic patriotism by a position in the Treasury Depart- 
ment at Washington. She has been married a number of 
years, but is still at Washington, and is known as Mrs. 
Rebecca Wright Monsal. When we consider the risks she 
ran in giving the information she did, who can but admire 
her patriotism! Had she been discovered, her position 
would have been that of a spy, and a sentence of death 
would surely have been found and executed. 

The circumstances of the writing of the poem by Mr. 
Read are very interesting. Just after the famous ride had 
been made, it was most appropriately illustrated by Har- 
per's of New York. Mr. Read admiring the illustration, 
remarked to a friend that there was a poem in that picture. 
In a few days a public meeting was held in New York City 





==-.<%"' 







SHERIDAN'S RIDE 




^ 



SHEBIDAN'S RIDE. 



to pay compliment to General Sheridan for his meritorious 
work for the Union. Mr. Eead was notified to be one of 
the speakers. He took for the subject of his remarks the 
production of a poem on the illustration above mentioned. 
It is said he locked himself up in his room the afternoon 
before the meeting was held and composed the poem, which 
he allowed no one to read, and gave it first to the world 
from his own hps at that evening's meeting. 

The gathering, of course, was a most patriotic one, and 
with breathless appreciation were the verses received. 
Fresh in their minds were the events which made the sub- 
ject for his words, and as verse after verse was read, the 
silent excitement became intense. It is said when he had 
Sheridan five miles away those in the rear of the room 
raised from their seats and peered anxiously in his face as 
if afraid he would not get the gaUant General there in 
time. As he finished the reading, the applause that at- 
tested to their appreciation must have been full recom- 
pense to rider, poet, and horse for their noble efforts. 




SHEKIDAN'S EIDE. 



BUCHANAN READ. 




Up from the Soutli at the break of day, 
Bringing to Wiachester fresh dismay, 
The affrighted air with a shudder bore, 
Like a herald in haste to the chieftain's door. 
The terrible grumble and rmnble and roar, 
Telling the battle was on once more, 
And Sheridan twenty nules away. 

And wider still those biUows of war 

Thundered along the horizon's bar, 

And louder yet into Winchester roUed 

The roar of that red sea uncontrolled, 

Making the blood of the hstener cold 

As he thought of the stake ia that fiery fray, 

And Sheridan twenty nules away. 





HISTORY OF FAVORITES IN SONG AND VERSE. 





But there is a road from Wincliester town, 

A good, broad highway leading down ; 

And there, through the flash of the morning Hght, 

A steed as black as the steeds of night, 

Was seen to pass as with eagle flight — 

As if he knew the terrible need, 

He stretched away with his utmost speed : 

HiLl rose and fell — but his heart was gay, 

With Sheridan fifteen miles away. 

Still sprung from those swift hoofs, thund'rrag south, 
The dust like the smoke from the cannon's mouth, 
Or the trail of a comet sweeping faster and faster, 
Foreboding to traitors the doom of disaster ; 
The heart of the steed and the heart of the master 
Were beating like prisoners assaulting their walls, 
Impatient to be where the battie-fleld calls : 
Every nerve of the charger was strained to full play, 
With Sheridan only ten miles away. 

Under his spurning feet, the road 

Like an arrowy Alpine river flowed. 

And the landscape sped away behind 

Like an ocean flying before the wind ; 

And the steed, like a bark fed with furnace ire. 

Swept on, with his wild eye full of fire ; 

But lo ! he is nearing his heart's desire — 

He is snuffing the smoke of the roaring fray. 

With Sheridan only five miles away. 

The first that the General saw were the groups 

Of stragglers, and then the retreating troops ; 

What was done — ^what to do — a glance told him both. 

Then striking his spurs with a terrible oath, 

He dashed down the hue 'mid a storm of huzzas. 

And the waves of retreat checked its course there, because 

The sight of the master compelled it to pause. 

With foam and with dust the black charger was gray. 

By the flash of his eye, and his red nostrils' play. 

He seemed to the whole great army to say : 





MISS REBECCA WRIGHT'S HOME 





HOLD TMJi FOMT. 

" I have brought you Sheridan all the way 
From Winchester down to save the day ! " 

Hurrah, hurrah for Sheridan ! 

Hurrah, hurrah for horse and man ! 

And when their statues are placed on high, 

Under the dome of the Union sky, 

The American soldier's Temple of Fame, 

There with the glorious Greneral's name, 

Be it said with letters both bold and bright, 

" Here is the steed that saved the day 

By carrying Sheridan into the fight 

From Winchester — ^twenty miles away ! " 




HOLD THE FORT. 

This song was suggested by an incident of the late war 
during Sherman's march from Chattanooga, Tenn., to At- 
lanta, Gra. During the march all the strategy of civil war 
was brought into play. The entire march was almost one 
continuous battle, and the 140 miles was in fact one long- 
drawn-out battle-ground. About five miles north of Ma- 
rietta stands Kenasaw Mountain, surrounded by neighbor- 
ing peaks of less magnitude. The battle of Kenasaw Moun- 
tain is one of the most familiar engagements of the late 
war, and it was during this battle that transpired the act 
that made subject for the song. 

In signalling from one of the adjacent hill-tops, one of 
Sherman's generals manifested an inclination to surrender 
because of the superior forces of the enemy, and he sig- 
nalled his weakness to Greneral Sherman's headquarters. 
General Sherman determined at once to reinforce him and 
hold the position, and signalled him back, " Hold the fort, 
for I am coming." The incident gave subject for one of 
the most beautiful songs of the day. 




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TESTIMONIAL WATCH PRESENTED TO RE 
BECCA L. WRIGHT BY GEN. SHERIDAN 




>T^oZvC ~^«y 





MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 



MY BOAT IS ON THE SHORE. 

[The following lines were addressed extempore by Lord Byron to his friend, 
Tom Moore, on the latter's last visit to Italy.] 

My boat is on the shore, 

And my bark is on the sea : 
But before I go, Tom Moore, 

Here's a double health to thee. 




Here's a sigh to those who love me; 

And a smile to those that hate ; 
And whatever sky's above me ; 

There's a heart for every fate. 

Though the ocean roar around me. 
Yet it still shall bear me on ; 

Though a desert should surround me, 
It hath springs that may be won. 

Wer't the last drop in the well. 
And I gasping on the brink. 

Ere my faulting spirits fell, 
'Tis to thee that I would driok. 

For that water, as this wine. 
The Hbation I would pour ; 

Should be — Peace to thine and mine, 
And a health to thee, Tom Moore. 







OUB FAVOBITES. 



EEVERIES OF THE OLD KITCHEN. 

Far back in my musings my tiiouglits have been east 
To the cot where the hours of my childhood were passed ; 
I loved all its rooms to the pantry and hall, 
But that blessed old kitchen was dearer than all. 
Its chairs and its table none brighter could be, 
And all its suiTOundings were sacred to me — 
To the naU in the ceiling, the latch on the door, 
And I love every crack on the old kitchen floor. 

I remember the flre-place with mouth high and wide. 

The old-fashioned oven that stood by its side, 

Out of which, each Thanksgiving, came puddings and pies. 

That fairly bewildered and dazzled my eyes. 

And then, too, St. Nicholas, slyly and still. 

Came down every Christmas our stockings to fill ; 

Biit the dearest of memories I've laid up in store, 

Is the mother that trod on the old kitchen floor. 

Day in and day out, from morning till night, 
Her footsteps were busy, her heart always Hght, 
For it seemed to me then, that she knew not a care, 
The smile was so gentle her face used to wear ; 
I remember with pleasure what joy filled our eyes. 
When she told us the stories that children so prize ; 
They were new every night, though we'd heard them before 
From her Hps, at the wheel, on the old kitchen floor. 

I remember the window, where mornings I'd run 

As soon as the daybreak, to watch for the sun ; 

And thought, when my head scarcely reached -to the siU, 

That it slept through, the night in the trees on the hiU, 

And the small tract of groimd that my eyes there could view 

Was all of the world that my infancy knew ; 

Indeed, I cared not to know of it more, 

For a world of itself was that old kitchen floor. 





IT SNOWS. 

To-night those old visions come back at their will, 
But the wheel and its music forever are still ; 
The band is moth-eaten, the wheel laid away, 
And the fingers that turned it lie mould'ring in. clay ; 
The hearthstone, so sacred, is just as 'twas then, 
And the voices of children ring out there again ; 
The sun through the window looks in as of yore, 
But it sees strange feet on the old kitchen floor. 

I ask not for honor, but this I would crave. 

That when the hps speakLng are closed in the grave, 

My children would gather theirs round by their side. 

And teU of the mother who long ago died : 

'Twould be more enduring, far dearer to me, 

Than inscription on granite or marble could be. 

To have them teU often, as I did of yore. 

Of the mother who ti-od on the old kitchen floor. 




IT SNOWS. 



" It snows ! " cries the School-boy, " Hurrah ! " and his shout 

Is linging through parlor and hall, 
While swift as the wing of a swallow, he's out, 

And his playmates have answered his call ; 
It makes the heart leap but to witness their joy ; 

Proud wealth has no pleasure, I trow. 
Like the raptui'e that throbs in the pulse of the boy. 

As he gathers his treasures of snow ; 
Then lay not the trappings of gold on thine heirs, 
While health, and the riches of nature, are theirs. 

" It snows ! " sighs the Imbecile, "Ah ! " and his breath 

Comes heavy, as clogged with a weight : 
While, from the pale aspect of nature in death 

He turns to the blaze of his grate ; 






T 




OUR FAVOBITES. 

And nearer and nearer liis soft-eusMoned chair 

Is wheeled toward tlie life-giving flame ; 
He dreads a cMU pnff of the snow-burdened air, 

Lest it wither his delicate frame ; 
Oh ! small is the pleasure existence can give, 
When the fear we shall die only proves that we live ! 

" It snows ! " cries the Traveller, " Ho ! " and the word 

Has quickened his steed's lagging pace ; 
The wind rushes by, but its howl is unheard, 

Unf elt the sharp drift in his face ; 
For bright through the tempest his own home appeared. 

Ay, through leagues intervened he can see ; 
There's the clear, glowing hearth, and the table prepared. 

And his wife with her babes at her knee ; 
Blest thought ! how it hghtens the grief -laden hour, 
That those we love dearest are safe from its power ! 

" It snows ! " cries the BeUe, " Dear, how lucky ! " and turns 

From her mirror to watch the flakes fall ; 
Like the first rose of summer, her dimpled cheek bums, 

"While musing on sleigh-ride and ball : 
There are visions of conquests, of splendor, and mirth. 

Floating over each drear winter's day ; 
But the tintings of Hope, on this storm-beaten earth. 

Will melt like the snow-flakes away ; 
Turn, turn thee to Heaven, fair maiden, for bUss ; 
That world has a pure fount ne'er opened in this. 

" It snows ! " cries the Widow, " Oh Ood ! " and her sighs 

Have stifled the voice of her prayer ; 
Its burden you'll read in her tear-swollen eyes, 

On her cheek sunk with fasting and care. 
'Tis night, and her fatherless ask her for bread. 

But " He gives the young ravens their food," 
And she trusts, till her dark hearth adds horror to dread, 

And she lays on her last chip of wood. 
Poor sufferer ! that sorrow thy Grod only knows ; 
'Tis a most bitter lot to be poor, when it snows ! 







THE INQUIRY. 



THE INQUIRY. 

TeU me, ye ■winged -winds that round my pathway soar 
Do ye not know some spot where mortals weep no more ? 
Some lone and pleasant dell, some valley in the west 
Where, free from toil and pain, the weary sonl may rest ? 
The loud wind dwindled to a whisper low 
And sighed for pity as it answered — " No." 

TeU me, thou mighty deep, whose billows rotind me play, 
Knowest thou some favorite spot, some island far away. 
Were weary one may find the bhss for which she sighs — 
Where sorrow never Hves, and friendship never dies I 
The loud waves rolling in pei-petual flow 
Stopped for a while and sighed to answer — "No." 

And thou, serenest moon, that with such lovely face 
Dost look upon the earth asleep in night's embrace, 
TeU me in aU thy round hast thou not seen some spot 
Where miserable man may find a happier lot ? 
Behind a cloud the moon withdrew in woe, 
And a voice sweet but sad responded — " No." 

TeU me, my secret soul, Oh ! teU me, Hope and Faith, 
Is there no resting place from sorrow, sin and death ? 
Is there no happy spot where mortals may be blessed, 
Where grief may find a balm, and weariness a rest ? 
Faith, Hope, and Love, best subjects to mortals given. 
Waved their bright wings and whispered — " Yes, in Heaven ! " 




THE MAN WITH THE MUSKET. 

They are building as Babel was built, to the sky, 
With clash and confusion of speech ; 

They are piling up monuments massive and high 
To lift a few namea out of reach. 






OUB FAVORITES. 

And the passionate green-laurelled god of the great, 

In a whimsical riddle of stone, 
Has chosen a few from the field and the state. 

To sit on the steps of his throne. 

But I — I win pass from this rage of renown, 

This ant-hill conunotion and strife ; 
Pass hy where the marbles and bronzes look down, 

"With their fast frozen gestures of life, 
On, out of the nameless who he 'neath the gloom 

Of the pitying cypress and pine ; 
Your man is the man of the sword and the plume, 

But the man with the musket is mine. 

I knew him, I tell you ! And also I knew 

When he fell on the battle-swept ridge. 
That the poor battered body that lay there ia blue 

Was only a plank in the bridge. 
Over which some should pass to a fame 

That shaU shine while the high stars shah, shine ! 
Your hero is known by an echoing name. 

But the man of the musket is mine. 

I knew him ! All through him the good and the bad 

Ran together and equally free ; 
But I judge, as I trust Christ has judged the poor lad, 

For death made him noble to me ! 
In the cyclone of war, in the battle's echpse, 

Life shook out its Ungering sands. 
And he died with the names that he loved on his hps. 

His musket stiC grasped in his hands ! 
Up close to the flag, my soldier went down j 

In the sahent front of the line ; 
You may take for your heroes the men of renown, 

But the man of the musket is mine ! 

There is peace in the May-laden grace of the hours 
That come when the day's work is done. 

And peace with the nameless, who under the flowers 
Lie asleep in the slant of the sun. 






IN THE MINING TOWN. 



Beat the taps ! Put out lights ! and silence aU sound ; 

There is rifle-pit strength in the grave ! 
They sleep well who sleep, be they crowned or uncrowned, 

And death will be kind to the brave. 





IN THE MINING TOWN. 

"'Tis the last time, darling/' he gently said, 
As he kissed her lips hke the cherries red. 
While a fond look shone in his eyes of brown, 
" My own is the prettiest girl in town ; 
To-morrow the bell from the tower will ring 
A joyful peal. Was there ever a king 
So truly blest, on his royal throne. 
As I shall be when I claim my own ? " 

'Twas a fond farewell ; 'twas a sweet good-bye, 
But she watched him go with a troubled sigh. 
So, into the basket that swayed and swung 
O'er the yawning abyss he Hghtly sprung. 
And the joy of her heart seemed turned to woe 
As they lowered him into the depths below, 
Her sweet young face, with its tresses brown, 
Was the fairest face in the mining town. 

Lo ! the morning came ; but the marriage-beU, 
High up in the tower, rang a mournful kneU 
For the true heart buried 'neath earth and stone, 
Far down in the heart of the mine — alone. 
A sorrowful peal on their wedding-day. 
For the breaking heart and the heart of clay. 
And the face that looked from her tressed brown 
Was the saddest face in the mining town. 

Thus time rolled on its weary way 

Until fifty years, with then* shadows gray, 





OUB FAVOBITES. 

Had darkened the liglit of her sweet eyes' glow, 
And had turned the brown of her hair to snow. 
Oh ! never a kiss from a husband's lips, 
Or the clasp of a child's sweet finger-tips. 
Had lifted one moment the shadows brown 
From the saddest heart in the mining town. 

Far down in the depths of the mine one day. 
In the loosened earth they were digging away, 
They discovered a face, so young, so fair, 
From the smiling Up to the bright brown hair, 
Untouched by the finger of Tune's decay. 
"When they drew him up to the light of day 
The wondering people gathered 'round 
To gaze at the man thus strangely found. 

Then a woman came from among the crowd. 

With her long white hair, and her shght form bowed, 

She silently knelt by the form of clay. 

And kissed the lips that were cold and gray. 

Then the sad old face with its snowy hair 

On his youthful bosom lay pillowed there, 

He had found her at last, his waiting bride, 

And the people buried them side by side. 





MY MOTHEB^IN-LAW. 

She is coming, she is coming ; unhappy is my fate : 

Time, tide, and my wife's mother were never known to wait. 

She is coming like a martinet ; domestic peace must fly, 

With aU the tender graces that are absent when she's nigh. 

She will wash and scold the children and boss the servant girl, 

Rip-saw my lamb-like temper and set my nerves awhirl ; 

Talk volumes on economy, but aU the time declare 

My wife's allowance is not half as much as I should spare. 

A perfect fiend at bargaining, she'U sally out to buy 

A host of things I can't afford, all purchased on the sly. 






JACK'S WAY. 



I'll have to give up smoking to get tlie children frocks, 

And my corns will soon be aching from the patches on my socks. 

She'U need a peck of buttons to sew on here and there, 

And spools of twist and cotton for every rip and tear ; 

And, to cap the awful climax, she so weU. knows how to bake, 

And as a cook is imsurpassed from oyster stew to steak. 

That while I hate to have her come, my hatred's tinged with woe, 

When she departs, I must confess, I hate to see her go ! 



JACK'S WAY. 




.Yes, Jack could do most anything, and do it mighty weU; 
What he knew would flU ten volimies ; what he didn't — ^who could 

tell? 
His temper was angehc and his tongue was always kind, 
As a fresh and jolly joker his match was hard to find ; 
He buzzed and hustled roimd and roimd, and yet 'twas very funny ! 
He never did and never would go in for maJdn' money. 

Now when it came to farming, he knew exactly why 
The crops were light, the prices low, the seasons wet or dry ; 
He often told the viRage merchant how to run a store, 
And showed the parson just the way to make the devil sore ; 
'Twas fine to hear the shrewd advice Jie was forever givin'. 
And yet — ^to save his life — ^the man co\ild never make a livin'. 

The year diphthery, scarlet fever, and the measles came. 
He never tired of showin' where the doctors were to blame ; 
And when he talked on teachin', hotel-keepin', and the law. 
You know'd 'twas all compressed within the compass of his jaw ; 
Of all the men you ever seed he seemed the most disarvin'. 
Though — ^while he seldom paid a debt — ^his family was starvin'. 

He'd lend the clothes from off his back, then turn around and borry. 
But before you got your own returned you'd be both mad and sorry, 
'Twas thus he buzzed his way through life, a puzzle and a care. 
Without a foe, he made his friends and relatives despair ; 
And then outUved them all and died in peace at seventy-seven, 
He made no money here below, he'll do without in heaven. 



k 





OUB FAVO BITES. 



THE REASON WHY. 





It isn't that IVe got a thing agiii' you, Parson Peak, 

Nor agin' the many " tried and true " I've met there every week ; 

It's not for this I've stayed away so many Sabba' days 

From the cherished little meetin'-house where oft I've joined ia 

praise. 
But listen — ^if you care to know — and I will teU you aU. 
I think 'twas about two year ago — or was it three, last fall ? 
The wealthy members voted that they'd have the seats made free, 
And most of us was wiUin' with the notion to agree. 

Perhaps the meanin' of the word I didn't quite understand ; 
For the Sunday after, waLdn' 'long with Elsie hand in hand 
(You know the little blue-eyed girl— her mother now is dead, 
And I am Elsie's grandpa ; but let me go ahead). 
Well, thinMn' o' the Master and how homelike it would be 
To take a seat just anywhere, now that the seats was free, 
I walked in at the open door, and up the centre aisle, 
And sat down tired, but happy ia the light of Elsie's smile. 

I listened to your preachin' with an " amen " in my heart, 
And when the hymns was given out, I tried to do my part ; 
And my love seemed newly kindled for the one great power above. 
And something seemed to answer back : " For love I give thee love.'" 
But when the benediction came, and we was passiu' out, 
A whispered sentence, with my name, caused me to turn about. 
'Twas not exactly words like this, but words that meant it all : 
" It's strange that paupers never know their place is by the waU." 

It wasn't 'bout myselE I cared for what the speaker said, 
But the Mttle blossom at my side, with pretty upturned head ; 
And looMn' down at Elsie, there, I thought of Elsie's mother. 
And thoughts my better nature scorned, I tried in vain to smother. 
I've been to meetin' twice siuce then, and set down by the wall, 
But kept a-thinkin' — thinkin' — tUl my thoughts was turned to gall ; 
And when the old familiar hymns was given out to sing. 
One look at Elsie's shiniu' curls would choke my utterin'. 



-4 





A FRIENDLY RAND. 



And SO I thought it best awhile to stay at home and praise, 
Or take a walk in field or wood, and there trace out His ways. 
" It's better so," my old heart said, " than gather with the thi-ong, 
And let your f eelin's rankle with a real or fancied wrong." 
But I'm prayin', parson, all the time (and wish you'd help me pray) 
When one and all are gathered home in the great comin' day ; 
"When men are weighed by honest deeds and love to f eUow-men, 
I won't be thought a pauper in the Ught I'm seen in then. 




A FRIENDLY HAND. 

When a man an't got a cent, and he's feelin' kind o' blue. 

An' the clouds hang dark an' heavy, an' won't let the sunshine 

through. 
It's a great thing, oh, my brethren, for a feUer just to lay 
His hand upon your shoulder in a friendly sort o' way ! 

It makes a man feel curious ; it makes the tear-drops start, 
And you sort o' feel a flutter in the region of the heart. 
You can't look up an' meet his eyes ; you don't know what to say. 
When his hand is on your shoulder in a friendly sort o' way ! 

Oh, the world's a curious compound, with its honey and its gall, 
With its cares and bitter crosses ; but a good world after aU. 
And a good Grod must have made it — ^leastways, that's what I say 
When a hand rests on my shoulder in a friendly sort o' way ! 




THE JOLLY OLD PEDAGOGUE. 

'TwAS a joUy old pedagogue, long ago, 

Tall and slender, and sallow and dry ; 
His form was bent and his gait was slow. 
His long, thiu hair was as white as snow. 
But a wonderful twinkle shone in his eye ; 






OUB FAVORITES. 

And lie sang eveiy night as lie want to bed, 

" Let us be happy down here below, 
The Hving should live, though the dead be dead," 

Said the joUy old pedagogue, long ago. 

He taught his scholars the rule of three, 

Writing and reading, and history, too ; 
He took the little ones upon his knee, 
For a kind old heart in his breast had he. 

And the wants of the little child he knew ; 
" Learn while you're young," he often said, 

" There's so much to enjoy down here below, 
Life for the living and rest for the dead ! " 

Said the joUy old pedagogue, long ago. 

With the stupidest boy he was kind and cool. 

Speaking only iu gentlest tones ; 
The rod was hardly known in the school — 
Whipping to him was a barbarous rule. 

And too hard work for the poor old bones ; 
Besides it was painful, he sometimes said, 

" We should make life pleasant down here below, 
Life for the living, and rest for the dead," 

Said the joUy old pedagogue, long ago. 

He lived in the house by the hawthome lane. 

With roses and woodbine over the door ; 
His rooms were quiet, and neat and plain. 
But a spirit of comfort there held reign, 

And made him forget he was old and poor ; 
" I need so little," he often said, 

"And my friends and relatives here below ; 
Won't Htigate over me when I am dead," 

Said the joUy old pedagogue, long ago. 

He sat at the door one midsummer night, 

After the sun had sunk in the west. 
And the lingering beams of golden light 
Made his kindly old face look warm and bright ; 







PHILIP BABTON—ENGIKEEB. 

WMle the odorous niglit wind "whispered low 
Grently, gently lie bowed Ms head — 

There were angels waiting for him, I know, 
He was sure of happiness, living or dead. 

This joUy old pedagogue, long ago ! 




PHILIP BAETON— ENGINEER. 

DIED DECEMBER 18, 1882. 

Phuip Baeton, of Denver — ^have you ever heard the name ? — 
Sleeps to-night in his icy tomb, wrapped in the martyr's fame. 
Philip Barton, of Denver, slender and fair and young. 
Never such deeds of daring has spirit or mortal sung ; 
Only the great white mountains watch where the hero Ues, 
Only the stars of heaven look down from the darkened skies ; 
Yet to-night 'mid storm and darkness, to-night 'mid wind and rain, 
I read of his act of daring, I read of his death and pain. 
You do weU, oh, "Western mountains, to guard his resting-place — 
Silent his merry laughter, and white his boyish face — 
Surely, yon wind-swept cedars bent in their rocks and sighed. 
That night of storm and darkness, that night when Barton died.' 
******* 

Who was he ? Simply an engineer, and the youngest on the line ; 
But many a year he held his place in the cab of " 49." 
Many a trip had he looked ahead, over that icy track, 
Stretching about the mountains and across the " Foster Back ;" 
Many the time had he made the curve — ^never again he will — 
Around the edge of Miller's bend, Just as it mounts the hiU — 
An ugly bit of mountain road, whenever the upper snow 
Chances to sHde from its rocky nest, on to the rails below. 
Sixty miles from Denver, and the rock, in sohd waU, 
Rising to the very stars — ^hung as i£ to fall 
Down to where the swift Arkansas, in sullen flow. 
Sweeps against its stony banks, a thousand feet below. 
And that night down the canon — ^running at " forty," no less — 
Plunged the two great engines, dragging the night express ; 








OUB FAVOBITES. 



On over the bridge at the river and into a forest of pines, 
"With Barton's face at the window, watching for danger signs ; 
Behind was the second engine, ahead was the wall of snow. 
Which the prong of the great plow lifted and hurled to the rocks 

below. 

Black was the midnight darkness over the curve ahead. 
Save for the httle gleam of Hght which the rushing engiae shed. 
Firm was the hand of the engiaeer, clear and cool his brain, 
As leaning out of the swaying cab he peered before the train, 
On into the awful silence and darkness like a wall. 
As if the mantle of the Dead lay stretching over aU, 
Straight ahead the rushing engines, swinging, swaying on the track, 
Gallant riders in the saddle, flying chambers at their back. 
Sudden a shout of horror, wild as a cry of death. 
Came, while the train swept forward — swift as hurried breath — 
Sharp rang a warning whistle, from " 49," ahead, 
" Danger — down brakes ! " the signal that quick whistle said. 
Danger — for that moment from the summit of the hill, 
Bai'ton, watching out ahead, saw with sudden thriU, 
A mighty shadow deepen, and heard a muffled roar, 
Like the deep-toned beating of surf upon the shore. 
An instant, and he understood — some broken cars of freight 
Were rushing down that incline, hurled by their heavy weight. 
Along the slippery track ! a dozen, more or less. 
Black in the Drummond hght, fuU at the night express. 
Never one moment for halting, scarcely a moment for fear, 
Finner the grasp on the lever, calmer the engineer. 
He heard the rasping of the brakes, the slowing of the train. 
But only pulled his throttle in to pull it out again. 
" Jump ! " he cried to his fireman, " jump for the landing, Phin ! 
I'm going to stop the runaway, and break my coupling-pin ! " 
Out goes the trembling throttle — crack, and with a will, 
Old " 49 " and her engineer went charging for the hiU ; 
Up to meet the coming of those deadly dealing cars, • 
Just as a gallant hunter spurs ere he leaps the bars, 
Just as a charging trooper, with white but earnest face. 
Clings to his horse's saddle, as Barton kept his place ; 
Swift as the equinox, wild as a whirlwind's breath, 
" 49 " and her rider swept up to that awful death. 





WSEN SAM'WEL LED THE 8INGIN'. 



The grandest charge of cavalry the world has ever known 
The solitary Roman made who faced such odds alone, 
But now without an order, without one word or cheer, 
With half a prayer upon his Ups, swept on that engineer, 
Up to the terrible crash, there 'mid the mountain snow, 
That hurled the cab, like an arrow, on the icy rocks below. 
Crushing the gallant body, till the wreck burst into flame. 
As martyrs' spirits rise to Grod beyond man's praise or blame, 
Till the stars sent waving back their white signal ray, 
To teU that engineer below he had the right of way. 




Such is the story I read to-night, read in wind and rain. 
Tin Philip Barton's face looked in from each wet window pane, 
Until the wiad seemed bearing, where'er its fury blows, 
The virtue of his hero deed from off the mountain snows ; 
Where wrapped his icy mantle, but bright with martyr's flame. 
They guard with vigilance their dead — he of the Barton name. 




WHEN SAM'WEL LED THE SINGIN', 

Of course I love the House o' God, 

But 1 don't feel to hum there 
The way I useter to, afore 

New-fangled ways had come there. 
Though things are finer now a heap. 

My heart it keeps a-chngin' 
To our big, bare old meetin'-house, 

Where Sam'wel led the singia'. 

I 'low it's sorter solemn-Kke 

To hear the organ pealin' ; 
It kinder makes yer blood run cold. 

An' fills ye full o' f eeHn', 
But, somehow, it don't tech the spot — 

Now, mind ye, I ain't slingin' 
No slurs — ez that bass viol did 

When Sam'wel led the singin'. 





OUR FAVORITES. 

I tell ye what, when he struck up 

The tune, an' sister Hanner 
Put in her purty treble — eh ? 

That's what you'd call sopranner — 
Why, all the choir, with might an' maia, 

Set to, an' seemed a-flingin' 
Their hull souls out with ev'ry note, 

When Sam'wel led the siugin'. 

An', land alive, the way they'd race 

Thro' grand old " Coronation " ! 
Each voice a-chasin' t'other round, 

It jes' beat all creation ! 
I alius thought it must a' set 

The beUs o' Heaven a-riugiu'. 
To hear us " Crown Him Lord of All," 

When Sam'wel led the singLu'. 

Folks didn't sing for money then ; 

They sung because 'twas in 'em, 
An' must come out, I useter feel — 

If Parson couldn't win 'em 
With preachin' an' with prayin' an' 

His everlastin' dingin' — 
That choir'd fetch sinners to the fold. 

When Sam'wel led the stugin'. 




t 




HE Worried about it. 

" The sun's heat will give out in. ten million years more," 

And he worried about it ; 
" It will sure give out then, i£ it doesn't before," 

And he worried about it. 
It would surely give out, so the scientists said 
In all scientific books that he read, 
And the whole mighty universe then would be dead. 

And he worried about it. 





HE WORBIED ABOUT IT. 



"And some day the earth will fall into the sun," 

And he worried about it ; 
" Just as sure and as straight as i£ shot from a gun," 

And he worried about it. 
" When strong gravitation unbuckles her straps, 
Just picture," he said, " what a fearful collapse ! 
It will come ia a few million ages, perhaps," 

And he worried about it. 




" The earth wiU become much too small for the race," 

And he worried about it, 
" When we'U pay $30 an inch for pure space," 

And he worried about it ; 
" The earth wiU. be crowded so much, without doubt. 
That there'll be no room for one's tongue to stick out, 
And no room for one's thoughts to wander about," 

And he worried about it. 




" The Gulf Stream wiU curve and New England grow torrider," 

And he womed about it, 
" Than was ever the chmate of southernmost Florida," 

And he worried about it. 
" The ice crop wiU. be knocked into small smithereens, 
And crocodiles block up our mowing machines, 
And we'll lose our fine crops of potatoes and beans," 

And he worried about it. 

"And ill less than ten thousand years, there's no doubt," 

And he worried about it, 
" Our supply of lumber and coal will give out," 

And he worried about it. 
" Just then the ice age will return cold and raw. 
Frozen men will stand stiff with arms oxxtstretched in awe. 
As if vainly beseeo^hirig a general thaw," 

And he worried about it. 

His wife took in washing (a doUar a day) — 

He didn't worry about it ; 
His daughter sewed shirts, the rude grocer to pay — 

He didn't worry about it ; 





OUR FAVORITES. 



While his wife beat her tireless rub-a-dub-dub 
On the "washboard drum in her old wooden tub, 
He sat by the stove and he just let her rub — 
He didn't worry about it. 




SPELLINa DOWN. 

Well, Jane, I stayed in town last night, 

(I know I hadn't oughter). 
And went to see the speUin' match, 

With cousin Philip's daughter. 
I told her I was most too old ; 

She said I wasn't nuther — 
A likely gal is Susan Jane ; 

The image of her mother. 




I begged and plead with might and main, 

And tried my best to shake her. 
But blame the gal, she stuck and hung. 

Until I had to take her. 
I ain't much used to city ways. 

Or city men and women. 
And what I see, and what I heard. 

Just sot my head a-swimmin'. 

The hall was filled with styhsh folks. 

In broadcloth, silks, and laces. 
Who, when the time had come to spell, 

Stood up and took their places ; 
And Mayor Jones, in thunder tones, 

And waistcoat bright and yeUer, 
Grave out the words to one and aU, 

From a new-fangled speller. 





SPELLING DOWN. 

The people looked so bright and smart, 

Thinks I, it's no use foolin', 
They've got the speUin'-book by heart, 

With all their city schoohn' ; 
Till Or\'il Kent, the Circuit Judge, 

Got stuck on Pennsylvania, 
And Simon Swift, the merchant clerk, 

"Went down on kleptomania. 

Then Caleb Dunn, the broker's son, 

He put two n's in money, 
And Susan Jane, she smirked and smiled. 

And left one out in funny. 
And Leonard Rand, the Harvard chap, 

With features Hke a lady, 
Spelled lots o' French and Latin words, 

And caved on rutabaga. 

And as I sot there qxiiet hke, 

A-winMn' and a-bhnkin', 
The gashght glarin' ia my eyes, 

I couldn't help a-thinMn' 
How things were changed since you and I, 

In other winter weather, 
Drove o'er the snow-bound Eaton pikes 

To speUin' school together. 

Again the bleak New England hills 

Re-echoed to the singin' 
Of Yankee girls, with hair in curls, 

Who set the welkin ringin' ; 
They wan't afraid to siag when asked, 

And never would refuse to ; 
Somehow the singin' now-days, Jane, 

Don't sound .much as it used to. 

Twelve couple, then, a sleigh-load made, 
Packed dose to keep from freezin' ; 

Lor' bless the black-eyed rosy girls. 
They didn't mind the squeezin' ; 








OUB FAVORITES. 

Your sweetheart never •would complain 
Because you chanced to crowd her, 

They'd more of flesh and blood them days, 
And less of paint and powder. 

Down past the Quaker meetin'-house, 

And through the tamarack hoUer, 
'Mid mirth and song we sped along, 

With other loads to f oiler, 
Until (the gaslight dimmer grew — 

I surely wa'n't a dreamin') — 
Upon the distant lull I see 

The school-house lights a-gleamin'. 

The pedagogue gave out the words, 

His steel-bowed specs adjustin', 
To linsey girls, with hair in curls. 

And boys in jeans and fustian ; 
The letters rang out sharp and clear. 

Each syllable pronouncin', 
For he who broke the master's rule 

Was certain of a trouncia'. 

Brave hearts went down amid the strife ; 

The words came thicker, faster. 
Like body-guard of veterans scarred, 

The boys closed round the master — 
All down but two ! Fair Lucy's locks 

Swept over Rufus' shoulder, 
The room is stiU, the air grows chill, 

The winds blow fiercer, colder. 

«P-h-t-h-y-s-i-c," 

Lisped Lucy, in a flurry ; 
"P-h-t-h-i-s-i-c," 

Cried Rufus, in a hurry. 
No laurel wreath adorned his brow 

Twined by a blood-stained Nero ; 
Yet ia his homespun suit of blue, 

Young Rufus stood a hero. 






LITTLE MEG AND L 

The master sleeps beneath the hill, 

The voice of Rufas Bennet, 
Who snapped the word from Lucy Bird, 

"Was heard within the Senate. 
And countless miUions bless the name 

Of biTn who set in motion 
The tidal wave which freed the slave 

From ocean unto ocean. 

The girls who charmed us with their songs 

'Mid heavenly choirs are singin' ; 
Their feet have pressed the shining street, 

Where golden harps are ringin'. 
We've both grown old and feeble, Jane, 

Our views may not be true ones ; 
Yet somehow all the old ways seem 

Much better than the new ones. 





LITTLE MEG AND I. 

You asked me, mates, to spin a yam, before we go below ; 
Well, as the night is cahn and fair, and no chance for a blow, 
I'll give you one, — a story true as ever yet was told — 
For, mates, I wouldn't lie about the dead ; no, not for gold. 
The story's of a maid and lad, who loved in days gone by : 
The maiden was Meg Anderson, the lad, messmates, was I. 

A neater, trimmer craft than Meg was very hard to find ; 
Why, she could climb a hiU and make five knots agin the wind ; 
And as for lamin ', hulks and spars ! I've often heard it said 
That she could give the scholars points and then come out ahead. 
The old school-master used to say, and, mates, it made me cry. 
That the smartest there was little Meg ; the greatest dunce was I. 

But what cared I for larnin' then, while she was by my side ; 
For, though a lad, I loved her, mates, and for her would have died ; 
And she loved me, the little lass-, and often haVe I smiled 
When she said, " I'U be your little wife," 'twas the prattle of a child. 







OUB FAVOBITES. 



For there lay a gulf between us, mates, with the waters running 

high; 
On one side stood Meg Anderson, on the other side stood I. 

Meg's fortune was twelve ships at sea and houses on the land ; 
While mine — ^why, mates, you might have held my fortune in your 

hand. 
Her father owned a vast domain for miles along the shore ; 
My father owned a fishing-smack, a hut, and nothing more ; 
I knew that Meg I ne'er could win, no matter how I'd try, 
For on a couch of down lay she, on a bed of straw lay I. 

I never thought of leaving Meg, or Meg of leaving me, 

For we were young, and never dreamed that I should go to sea. 

Till one bright morning father said :. " There's a whale-ship in the 

bay: 
I want you. Bill, to make a cruise — ^you go aboard to-day." 
Well, mates, in two weeks from that time I bade them aU good-bye, 
While on the dock stood little Meg, and on the deck stood I. 

I saw her oft before we sailed, whene'er I came on shore, 

And she would say : " BiU, when you're gone, I'U love you more 

and more ; 
And I promise to be true to you through all the coming years." 
But while she spoke her bright blue eyes were flUed with pearly 

tears. 
Then, as I whispered words of hope and kissed her eyelids dry, 
Her last words were : " God speed you. Bill ! " so parted Meg and I. 

Well, mates, we cruised for four long years, till at last, one sum- 
mer's day. 

Our good ship, the Minerva, cast anchor m the bay. 

Oh, how my heart beat high with hope, as I saw her home once 
more, 

And on the pier stood hundreds, to welcome us ashore ; 

But my heart sank down within me as I gazed with anxious eye — 

No little Meg stood on the dock, as on the deck stood I. 

Why, mates, it nearly broke my heart when I went ashore that day, 
For they told me little Meg had wed, while I was far away. 







JOHN MAYNABD. 



TTiey told me, too, they forced her to't — and wrecked her fair young 

life- 
Just think, messmates, a child in years, to be an old man's wife. 
But her father said it must be so, and what could she reply ? 
For she was only Just sixteen — ^just twenty-one was I. 

WeU, mates, a few short years from then — ^perhaps it might be 

four — 
One blustering night Jack Ghnn and I were rowing to the shore. 
When right ahead we saw a sight that made us hold oui* breath — 
There floating in the pale moonlight was a woman cold in death. 
I raised her up : oh, God, messmates, that I had passed her by ! 
For in the bay lay httle Meg, and over her stood I. 




JOHN MATNARD. 

'TwAS on Lake Erie's broad expanse. 

One bright midsummer day, 
The gallant steamer Ocean Queen 

Swept proudly on her way. 
Bright faces clustered on the deck. 

Or leaning o'er the side, 
"Watched carelessly the feathery foam, 

That flecked the rippling tide. 

Ah, who beneath that cloudless sky. 

That smiling bends serene. 
Could dream that danger, awful, vast. 

Impended o'er the scene — 
Could dream that ere an hour had sped, 

That frame of sturdy oak 
Would sink beneath the lake's blue waves, 

Blackened with fire and smoke, 

A seaman sought the captain's side, 

A moment whispered low ; 
The captain's swarthy face grew pale, 

He huiTied down below. 






OUB FAVORITES. 

Alas, too late ! Though quick and sharp 

And clear his orders came, 
No hxunan efforts could avail 

To quench th' insidious flame. 

The bad news quickly reached the deck, 

It sped from lip to lip, 
And ghastly faces everywhere 

Looked from the doomed ship. 
" Is there no hope — ^no chance of life ? " 

A hundred lips implore ; 
" But one," the captain made reply, 

" To run the ship on shore." 

A sailor, whose heroic soul 

That hour should yet reveal, — 
By name John Maynard, Eastern bom, — 

Stood calmly at the wheel. 
" Head her south-east ! " the captain shouts, 

Above the smothered roar, 
" Head her south-east without delay ! 

Make for the nearest shore ! " 

No terror pales the helmsman's cheek. 

Or clouds his dauntless eye. 
As in. a sailor's measured tone 
. His voice responds, "Ay, Ay ! ", 
Three hundred souls, — the steamer's freight,- 

Crowd forward, wild with fear. 
While at the stem the dreadful flames 

Above the deck appear. 

John Maynard watched the nearing flames, 

But still, with steady hand 
He grasped the wheel, and steadfastly 

He steered the ship to land. 
" John Maynard," with an anxious voice, 

The captain cries once more, 
" Stand by the wheel five minutes yet, 

And we will reach the shore." 






JOHN MAYNABD. 

Througli flames and smoke that daimtless heart 

Responded firmly, stiU 
Unawed, though face to face with death, 

" With God's good help I will ! " 

The flames approach with giant strides, 

They scorch his hands and brow ; 
One arm disabled seeks his side, 

Ah, he is conquered now ! 
But no, his teeth are firmly set, 

He crushes down the pain, — 
His knee upon the stanchion pressed, 

He guides the ship again. 

One moment yet ! one moment yet ! 

Brave heart, thy task is o'er ! 
The pebbles grate beneath the keel, 

The steamer touches shore. 
Three hundred gi-ateful voices rise 

In praise to Grod, that He 
Hath saved them from the fearful fire, 

And from th' ingulfing sea. 

But where is he, that helmsman bold ? 

The captain saw him reel — 
His nerveless hands released their task, 

He sunk beside the wheel. 
The wave received his lifeless corpse, 

Blackened with smoke and fire. 
God rest him ! Hero never had 

A nobler funeral pyre ! 








OUB FAVOBITES. 



KATIE LEE AND WILLIE GRAY 

Two brown heads with, tossing curls, 
Eed lips shutting over pearls, 
Bare feet, white and wet with dew. 
Two eyes black and two eyes blue — 
Little boy and girl were they, 
Katie Lee and WiUie Gray. 

They were standing where a brook, 
Bending like a shepherd's crook, 
Plashed its silver, and thick ranks 
Of willow fringed its mossy banks — 
Half m thought and half in play, 
Katie Lee and WiUie Gray. 

They had cheeks like cherry red. 

He was taller, 'most a head ; 

She with arms like wreaths of snow. 

Swung a basket to and fro. 

As they loitered, half in play, 

Katie Lee and WiUie Gray. 

"Pretty Katie," WilUe said. 
And there came a dash of red 
Through the brownness of the cheek, 
" Boys are strong and girls are weak, 
And m carry, so I will, 
Katie's basket up the hUl." 

Katie answered with a laugh, 
" You shall only carry half ;" 
Then said, tossing back her curls, 
" Boys are weak as weU as girls." 
Do you think that Katie guessed 
Half the wisdom she expressed ? 

Men are only boys grown tall ; 
Hearts don't change much, after all ; 






KATIE LEE AND WILLIE GRAY. 

And when, long years from that day, 
Katie Lee and Willie Gray 
Stood agaiQ beside the brook, 
Bending like a shepherd's crook — 

Is it strange that Willie said, 
While again a dash of red 
Crowned the brownness of his cheek, 
" I am strong and you are weak ; 
Life is but a sHppery steep. 
Hung with shadows cold and deep. 

" Win you trust me, Katie dear ? 
Walk beside me without fear ? 
May I carry, if I will. 
All your burdens up the lull ? " 
And she answered, with a laugh, 
" No, but you may carry half." 

Close beside the little brook. 
Bending Hke a shepherd's crook. 
Working with its sUver hands 
Late and early at,the sands. 
Stands a cottage, where, to-day, 
Katie hves with WiUie Grray, 

In the porch she sits, and lo ! 
Swinging a basket to and fro, 
Vastly different from the one 
That she swung in years agone ; 
This is long, and deep, and wide, 
And has rockers at the side. 






A STRANGE LOVE. 

I CLASPED her struggling to my heart, 
I whispered love unknown ; 

One kiss on her red lips I pressed, 
And she was aU my own. 






OVB FAVORITES. 

I loved her with a love profound, 
E'en death could not destroy, 

And yet, I must confess, I found 
My bliss had some alloy. 

For once I saw her unaware 

Upon a fellow's lap ; 
He claiming kisses ripe and rare — 

I did not like the chap. 

She had some faults (so have we all). 
But one I hope to throttle ; 

She had, alas, what I may call 
A weakness for the bottle. 

One mom I caught her ere was made 

Her toilet, and beneath 
An old straw hat her laugh betrayed, 

My darling had no teeth. 

Unconscious of my presence she. 

With artful antics rare, 
Tossed off the hat, and — Gracious me ! 

Her head was minus hair. 

But love is founded on a rock, 

And mighty in its might ; 
For I could learn without a shock, 

She could not read or write. 

She eoiild not dance nor sing a tone, 
And scarcely could converse ; 

But what cared I, she was my own, 
For better or for worse. 

And yet I loved her and confessed 

Devotion, and, it may be, 
You'd do the same if you possessed 

Another such a baby. 






HALF-WAT BOIN'S. 




HALF-WAY DOIN'S. 

Belubbed f ellow-trabelers : In holdin' forth, to-day, 
I doesn't quote no special verse for what I has to say, 
De sermon will be berry short, an' dis here am de tex' — 
Dat half-way doin's ain't no 'count for dis worl' or de nex'. 

Dis worl' dat we's a-Hbbin' ia is Hke a cotton-row, 
Whar ebery cullud gentleman has got his hue to hoe ; 
And every time a lazy nigger stops to take a nap, 
De grass keeps on a-growin' for to smudder up his crap. 

Wlien Moses led de Jews aerost de waters ob de sea, 

Dey had to keep a-goin' jes' as fas' as fas' could be : 

Do you suppose dat dey could eber hab succeeded in deir wish. 

And reached de Promised Land at last — if dey had stopped to fish 1 

My frien's, dar was a garden once, where Adam libbed wid Eve, 
Wid no one round to bodder dem, no neighbors for to thieve. 
And ebery day was Christmas, and dey got deir rations free. 
And eberything belonged to dem ; except an apple tree. 

You all know 'bout de story — ^how de snake come snoopin' round— 
A slump-tail, rusty moccasin, a-crawHn' on de groun' — 
How Eve and Adam eat de fruit, and went and hid deir face. 
Till de angel oberseer come and drove 'em off de place. 

Now 'spose dat man and 'oman hadn't 'tempted for to shirk, 
But had gone about deir gardenin' and 'tended to deir work, 
Dey wouldn't hab been loafin' whar dey had no business to, 
And de debbel neber'd had a chance to tell 'em what to do. 

No half-way doin's, bredren ! It'U neber do, I say ! 
Go at your task and finish it, and den's de time to play — 
For eben if de crap is good, de rain'H spUe de boUs, 
Unless you keeps a-pickin' in de garden ob your souls. 

Keep a-plowin' and a-hoein' and a-scrapin' ob de rows 
And when de ginnin's ober you can pay up what you owes ; 






OUE FAVORITES. 



But if you quits a-workin' ebery time de sun is hot, 
De sheriffs gwine ter lebby on eberyting you's got. 

Whateber 'tis you're dribin' at, be shore and dribe it through. 
And don't let nuffin stop you, but do what you's gwine ter do ; 
For when you sees a nigger foolin', den, as shore's you're born, 
You's gwine to see him com in' out de small end ob de horn. 

I thanks you for de 'tention you has gib dis afternoon — 
Sister Williams will obhdge us by a-raisin' ob a tune — 
I see dat Brudder Johnson's 'bout to pass aroun' de hat, 
And don't let's hab no half-way doin's when it comes to dat ! 





YOU PUT NO FLOWERS ON MY PAPA'S GRAVE. 

With sable-draped banners, and slow measured tread. 

The flower-laden ranks pass the gates of the dead ; 

And seeking each mound where a comrade's form rests, 

Leave tear-bedewed garlands to bloom on his breast. 

Ended at last is the labor of love ; 

Once more through the gateway the saddened lines move — 

A wailing of anguish, a sobbing of grief, 

Falls low on the ear of the battle-scarred chief ; 

Close crouched by the portals, a sunny-haired child 

Besought him ia accents which grief rendered wild : 

" Oh ! sir, he was good, and they say he died brave — 
Why ! why ! did you pass by my dear papa's grave f 
I know he was poor, but as kind and as true 
As ever marched into the battle with you — 
His grave is so humble, no stone marks the spot, 
You may not have seen it. Oh, say you did not ! 
For my poor heart would break if you knew he was there, 
And thought him too lowly your offeriags to share. 
He didn't die lowly — ^he poured his heart's blood, 
In rich crimson streams, from the top-crowning sod 
Of the breastworks which stood in front of the fight — 
And died shouting, ' Onward ! for God and the right ! ' 





MEASURING THE BABY. 

O'er all his dead comrades your bright garlands wave, 
But you haven't put one on my papa's gi-ave. 
If mamma were here — ^but she lies by his side, 
Her wearied heart broke when our dear papa died." 

" Battalion ! file left ! countermarch ! " cried the chief, 

" This young orphaned maid hath full cause for her grief." 

Then up in his arms from the hot, dusty street. 

He hfted the maiden, while ia through the gate 

The long hne repasses, and many an eye 

Pays fresh tribute of tears to the lone orphan's sigh. 

" This way, it is — ^here, sir — ^right under this tree ; 
They He close together, with just room for me." 

" Halt ! Cover with roses each lowly green mound — 
A love pure as this makes these graves hallowed ground." 

" Oh ! thank you, kind sir ! I ne'er can repay 

The kindness you've shown little Daisy to-day ; 

But I'U pray for you here, each day while I Uve, 

'Tis all that a poor soldier's orphan can give. 

I shaU see papa soon, and dear mamma too — 

I di'eamed so last night, and I know 'twill come true ; 

And they wiU both bless you, I know, when I say 

How you folded your arms round their dear one to-day — 

How you cheered her sad heart, and soothed it to rest. 

And hushed its wild throbs on youi' strong, noble breast ; 

And when the kind angels shall call you to come, 

We'U welcome you there to our beautiful home. 

Where death never comes, his black banners to wave, 

And the beautiful flowers ne'er weep o'er a grave." 





MEASURING THE BABY. 

We measured the riotous baby 
Against the cottage wall — 

A hly grew on the threshold. 
And the boy was just as taU ; 





OUB FAVORITES. 




A royal tiger-lily, 

With spots of ptirple and gold, 
And a heart like a jewelled chalice. 

The fragrant dew to hold. 

Without, the blue-birds whistled 

High up in the old roof -trees, 
And to and fro at the window 

The red rose rocked her bees ; 
And the wee pink fists of the baby 

Were never a moment still. 
Snatching at shine and shadow 

That danced on the lattice-sill. 

His eyes were wide as blue-bells — 

His mouth like a flower unblown — 
Two little bare feet like funny white mice. 

Peeped out from his snowy white gown ; 
And we thought, with a thrill of rapture, 

That yet had a touch of pain. 
When June rolls around with her roses, 

We'll measure the boy again. 

Ah me ! in a darkened chamber, 

With the sunshine shut away. 
Through tears that fell like a bitter rain, 

We measured the boy to-day ; 
And the little bare feet, that were dimpled 

And sweet as a budding rose. 
Lay side by side together. 

In a hush of a long repose ! 

Up from the dainty pillow. 

White as the risen dawn. 
The fair little face lay smiling. 

With the light of heaven thereon ; 
And the dear Mttle hands, like rose leaves 

Dropped from a rose, lay still. 
Never to snatch at the sunshine 

That crept to the shrouded sill. 






THE ISLE OF LONG AGO. 



We measured the sleeping baby 

With ribbons white as snow, 
For the shining rosewood casket 

That waited him below ; 
And out of the darkened chamber 

We went with a childless moan — 
To the height of the sinless angels 

Oiu- little one had grown. 





THE ISLE OF LONG AGO. 

Oh, a wonderful stream is the river of Time, 

As it runs through the realm of tears, 
With a faultless rhythm and a musical rhyme, 
And a boundless sweep and a surge sublime, 

As it blends with the Ocean of Years. 

How the winters are drifting, like flakes of snow, 

And the summers, hke buds between ; 
And the year in the sheaf — so they come and they go, 
On the river's breast, with its ebb and flow, 

As it ghdes in the shadow and sheen. 

There's a magical isle up the river of Time, 

Where the softest of airs are playing ; 
There's a cloudless sky and a tropical chme, 
And a song as sweet as a vesper chime, 

And the Junes with the roses are staying. 

And the name of that Isle is the Long Ago, 

And we bury our treasures there ; 
There are brows of beauty and bosoms of snow — 
There are heaps of dust — ^but we love them so ! — 

There are trinkets and tresses of hair ; 

There are fragments of song that nobody sings, 
And a part of an infant's prayer, 






OUR FAVORITES. 

There's a lute nnswept, and a harp without strings ; 
There are broken vows and pieces of rings, 
And the garments that she used to wear. 

There are hands that are waved, when the fairy shore 

By the mirage is lifted ia air ; 
And we sometimes hear, through the turbtdent roar, 
Sweet voices we heard ia the days gone before. 

When the wind down the river is fair. 

Oh, remembered for aye, be the blessed Isle, 

All the day of our life till night — 
When the evening comes with its beautiful smile, 
And our eyes are closing to slumber awhile. 

May that " Greenwood " of Soul be in sight ! 



i 




THE CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIR. 

In tattered old shppers that toast at the bars. 
And ragged old jacket, perfumed with cigars. 
Away from the world and its toils and its cares, 
I've a snug little kingdom, up four pairs of stairs. 

To mount to this reahn is a toU, to be sure. 

But the fire there is bright, and the air rather pure ; 

And the view I behold on a sunshiny day 

Is grand, through the chimney-pots over the way. 

This snug little chamber is crammed ia all nooks 

With worthless old nicknacks and siUy old books. 

And foohsh old odds, and f oohsh old ends. 

Cheap bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends 

Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all cracked). 
Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed, — 
A two-penny treasury, wondrous to see. 
What matter ? 'Tis pleasant to you, friend, and me. 







THE CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIB. 

No better divan need the Sultan require 
Tlian the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire ; 
And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get 
From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spiunet. 

That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp ; 
By Tiber once twinkled that old brazen lamp ; 
A Mameluke fierce yonder dagger has drawn ; 
'Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon ! 

Long, long through the hours and the night and the chimes, 
Here we talk of old books and old friends and old times; 
And we sit in a fog made of rich Latakie ; 
This chamber is pleasant to you, friend, and me. 

But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest, 
There's one that I love and cherish the best ; 
For the finest of couches that's padded with hair, 
I never would change thee, my cane-bottomed chair ! 

'Tis a bandy-legged, high-shouldered, worm-eaten seat, 
With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet ; 
But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there, 
I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottomed chair ! 

If chairs have but feeUng, in. holding such charms, 

A thrill must have passed through your withering old arms. 

I looked and I longed, I wished in despair — 

I wished myself turned to a cane-bottomed chair. 

It was but a moment she sat in this place ; 

She'd a scarf on her neck and a smile on her face, — 

A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair, 

As she sat there and bloomed in my cane-bottomed chair. 

And so I have valued my chair ever since. 

Like the shrine of a saint or the throne of a prince. 

Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet, I declare 

The queen of my heart and my cane-bottomed chair. 

When the candles burn low, and the company's gone, 
In the silence of night, I sit here alone — 





OUB FAVOBITES. 

I sit hel*e alone ; but we yet are a pair — 
My Fanny I see in my cane-bottomed chair. 

She-eomes from the past, and revisits my room ; 
She looks, as she then did, all beauty and bloom ; 
So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair ; 
And yonder she sits in my cane-bottomed chair ! 




THE LAST HYMN. 

The Sabbath day was ended in a village by the sea, 

The uttered benediction touched the people tenderly. 

And they rose to face the sunset in the glowing, hghted west, 

And then hastened to their dweUings for Grod's blessed boon of rest. 

And they looked across the waters, and a storm was ragrag there, 

A fierce spirit moved above them — a wild spirit of the air ; 

And it lashed and shook and tore them, till they thundered, groaned 

and boomed, 
And alas ! for any vessel in their yawning gulfs intombed. 

Very anxious were the people on the rocky coast of Wales, 
Lest the dawn of coming morrows should be telling awftd tales, 
When the sea had spent its passion and should cast upon the shore 
Bits of wreck and swoUen victims, as it had done heretofore. 

With the rough winds blowing round her, a brave woman strained 

her eyes. 
And she saw along the billows a large vessel fall and rise. 
Oh, it did not need a prophet to tell what the end must be ! 
For no ship could ride in safety near the shore on such a sea. 

Then pitying people hurried from their homes and thronged the 

beach. 
Oh, for power to cross the water and the perishing to reach ! 
Helpless hands were wrung with sorrow, tender hearts grew cold 

with dread ; 
And the ship, urged by the tempest, to the fatal rock-shore sped. 







LEAVING THE HOMESTEAD. 

She has parted in the middle ! Oh, the half of her goes down ! 
God have mercy ! Is heaven far to seek for those who drown ? " 
Lo ! when next the white, shocked faces looked with terror on the 

sea, 
Only one last ehnging figure on the spar was seen to be. 

Near the trembling watchers came the wreck tossed by the wave. 
And the man still clung and floated, though no power on earth 

could save. 
"Could we send him a short message? here's a trumpet. Shout 

away ! " 
'Twas the preacher's hand that took it, and he wondered what to 

say. 

Any memory of his sermon — firstly — secondly ! Ah, no ! 

There was but one thing to utter in that awful hour of woe ; 

So he shouted through the trumphet, " Look to Jesus. Can you 

hear?" 
And "Ay, ay, sir ! " rang the answer o'er the water loud and clear. 

Then they Hstened. He is siugtng, " Jesus, lover of my soul ! " 
And the wiads brought back the echo, " While the nearer waters 

roU;" 
Strange, indeed, it was to hear him, " Till the storm of life is passed," 
Singiug bravely from the waters, " Oh, receive my soul at last ! " 

He could have no other refuge. " Hangs my helpless soul on Thee ; 
Leave, ah, leave me not " — ^the singer dropped at last into the sea. 
And then the watchers, looking homeward, through their eyes with 

tears made dim. 
Said, " He passed to be with Jesus in the singing of that hymn." 




LEAVING THE HOMESTEAD. 

You'ee going to leave the homestead, John 

You're twenty-one to-day. 
And the old man will be sorry, John, 

To see you go away. 






OUE FAV QUITE S. 

You've labored late and early, Joka, 

And done the best you could ; 
I ain't a-going to stop you, John — 

I wouldn't if I could. 

The years they come and go, my boy, 

The years they come and go ; 
And raven locks and tresses brown 

Grow white as driven snow. 
My life has known its sorrows, John, 

Its trials and troubles sore ; 
Yet God withal has blessed me, John, 

" In basket and in store." 

But one thing let me tell you, John, 

Before you make your start. 
There's more in beiag honest, John, 

Twice o'er than being smart. 
Though rogues may seem to flourish, John, 

And sterling worth to fail, 
O, keep in view the good and true ; 

'Twill in the end prevail. 

Don't think too much of money, John, 

And dig and delve and plan. 
And rake and scrape in every shape. 

To hoard up aU you can. 
Though fools may count their riches, John, 

In dollars, pounds, or pence. 
The best of wealth is youth and health, 

And good, sound common sense. 

There's shorter cuts to fortune, John — 

We see them every day — 
But those who love their self-respect, 

Chmb up the good old way. 
"All is not gold that glitters," John, 

And makes the vulgar stare ; 
And those we deem the richest, John, 

Have oft the least to spare. 






SOMEBODY'S MOTHER. 



Be good, be pure, be noble, John, 

Be honest, brave, and true. 
And do to others as ye would 

That they should do to you j 
And place your trust in God, my boy, 

" Though fiery darts be hurled," 
Then you can smile at Satan's rage, 

And face a frowning world. 

Good-bye ! May Heaven guard and bless 

Your footsteps day by day ! 
The old house will be lonesome, John, 

When you are gone away. 
The cricket's song upon the hearth 

WiU have a sadder tone ; 
The old familiar spots wiU be 

So lonely when you're gone. 




SOMEBODY'S MOTHER. 




The woman was old and ragged and gray, 
And bent with the chiU of the winter's day. 

The street was wet with the recent snow. 
And the woman's feet were aged and slow. 

She stood at the crossing and waited long. 
Alone, uncared for, amid the throng 

Of human beings who passed her by. 
Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye. 

Down the street with laughter and shout, 
Glad in the freedom of " school let out," 

Came the boys like a flock of sheep. 
Hailing the snow pUed white and deep. 






OTIB FAVOBITES. 

Past the woman so old and gray 
Hastened the children on their way, 

Nor offered a helping hand to her, 
So meek, so timid, afraid to stir, 

Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet 
Should crowd her down in the sHppery street. 

At last came one of the merry troop — 
The gayest laddie of aU the group ; 

He paused beside her and whispered low, 
" rU help you across if you wish to go." 

Her aged hand on his strong young arm 
She placed, and so without hurt or harm. 

He guides her trembling feet along, 
Proud that his own were firm and strong. 

Then back again to his friends he went. 
His young heart happy and weU content. 

" She's somebody's mother, boys, you know, 
For all she's aged and poor and slow ; 

And I hope some fellow will lend a hand 
To help my mother, you understand. 

If ever she's poor and old and gray, 
"When her own dear boy is far away." 

And " somebody's mother " bowed low her head 
In her home that night, and the prayer she said 

Was, " God be kind to the noble boy. 
Who is somebody's son and pride and joy ! " 






OLD GRANDPA'S SOLILOQUY. 




OLD GRANDPA'S SOLILOQUY. 

It wasn't so when I was young — 
We used plain language then ; 

We didn't speak of " them galoots," 
Meanin' boys or men. 

When speaking of the nice hand-write 

Of Joe, or Tom, or BiU, 
We did it plain — ^we didn't say, 

" He shngs a nasty quill." 

An' when we saw a girl we liked, 

Who never f aUed to please. 
We called her pretty, neat, and good. 

But not " about the cheese." 

WeU, when we met a good old friend 

We hadn't lately seen. 
We greeted him, but didn't say, 

" HeUo, you old sardine ! " 

The boys sometimes got mad an' fit ; 

We spoke of kicks and blows ; 
But now they " whack him on the snoot," 

Or " paste him on the nose." 

Once when a youth was turned away 

By her he held most dear, 
He walked upon his feet — ^but now 

He " walks off on his ear." 

We used to dance when I was young, 

And used to call it so ; 
But now they don't — they only " sling 

The light fantastic toe." 

Of death we spoke ia language plaia 

That no one did perplex ; 
But m these days one doesn't die — 

He " passes m his checks." 






OUB FAVOBITES. 

We praised tlie man of common sense ; 

" His judgment's good," we said 
But now they say : " Well, that old plum 

Has got a level head." 

It's rather sad the children now 

Are leamin' all such talk ; 
They've learned to " chin " instead of chat, 

An' " waltz " instead of walk. 

To httle Harry yesterday — 
- My grandchild, aged two — 
I said, " You love grandpa ? " said he, 
" You bet your boots I do." 

The children bowed to a stranger once ; 

It is no longer so — 
The little girl, as weU as boys. 

Now greets you with " Helloa ! " 

Oh, give me back the good old days, 
When both the old and young 

Conversed in plaia, old-fashioned words, 
And slang was never " slung." 





THE GALLANT BRAKEMAN. 

Dust-grimed features, weather-beaten. 

Hands that show the scars of toU, 
Do you envy him his station. 

Patient tiller of the soil ? 
In the storms or in the sunshine 

He must mount the speeding train, 
Ride outside at post of duty, 

Heeding not the drenching rain. 

In the pleasant summer weather, 
Standing on the car-top high, 

He can view the changing landscapes 
As he rushes swiftly by ; 






THE GALLANT BBAKEMAN. 

While notes this beauteous picture 
Which the lonely landscape makes ; 

Suddenly across his dreaming 

Comes the quick shrill cry for brakes. 

But when winter's icy fingers 

Cover earth with snowy shroud, 
And the north wind, like a mad-man, 

Pushing on with shrieking loud ; 
Then behold the gallant brakeman 

Spring to heed the engine's call, 
Running over the icy car-top — 

God protect him if he fall. 

Do not scorn to greet him kindly, 

He will give you smile for smile, 
Tho' he's nothing but a brakeman, 

Do not deem him surely Aole ; 
Speak to him in kindly language, 

Tho' his clothes are coarse and plain. 
In his fearless bosom, beats a 

Heart that feels both joy and pain. 

He may have a widowed mother. 

He may be her only joy, 
Mayhap in her home she's praying 

For the safety of her boy ; 
How he loves that dear old mother. 

Toiling for her day by day. 
Always bringing her some present 

Every time he draws his pay. 

Daily facing death and danger, 

One misstep or sKp of hand 
Sends the poor unlucky brakeman 

To the dreaded unknown land ; 
When we scan our ev'ning paper. 

Note what its flUed columns say, 
One brief line attracts onr notice. 

One more brakeman killed to-day. 






OVB FAVORITES. 

In her little lonely cottage, 

Waiting in the waning light, 
Sits the luckless brakeman's mother, 

She expects her boy to-night ; 
Some one brings the fatal message, 

God have mercy ! hear her pray, 
As she reads the fearful story — 

Killed while couphng cars to-day. 




EETROSPECT. 



It has been said, and sadly oft repeated. 
That pleasure's parting draught is always pain ; 

Yet, who has drunk, and finding he was cheated. 
Has never once returned to drink again ? 

Who has not, looldng backward, broken-hearted. 
When all life's joys have bitter grown as gaU, 

Sighed for bhssful dreams long since departed. 
Or wept because he'd ever dreamed at aU ? 

And who, when dim years, hke towering mountains, 
Have hidden qidte forever from his view 

The effervescent gleams of pleasure's fountains. 
Would not their fleeting shadows stiE pursue ? 



t 



PLANTATION PROVERBS. 

Spec' dars poor-off colored darkies up in heben white as snow, 
Spec' dars lots of likely niggas buckin' cordwood down below. 

Nebber steer a midnight journey by de screamin' ob de loon — 
Neber spec' ter prove yer beauty by a tussel wid de moon. 

Ef yo' coat is las' year's pattern, plod erlong an' nebber min', 
Bar's a pile ob healthy growin' in de humbly punkin vine. 









J vol* 






^ FO/C^ JiJOilf THE POOBHOUSE. 



Alius sabe de diyes' field corn fur de grindin' at de mill ; 
Alius sabe yo' stronges' breathin' fur de journey up de hill. 

Nebber harness up de sto' clerk ter puU frough de flel' ban's part ; 
When yo' spec' ter tote de firewood use de common punkin caii. 




A VOICE FROM THE POORHOUSE. 

" My dear friends," the doctor said, " I favor license for selling 

rum. 
These fanatics teU us with horror of the mischief liquor has done. 
I say, as a man an' physician, the system's requirements is such, 
That unless we at times assist nattire the body and mind suffer 

much. 
'Tis a blessing when worn out and weary, a moderate drink now 

and then." 
From the minister in the pulpit came an audible murmur "Amen." 
" 'Tis true that many have fallen, became filthy drunkards and 

worse, 
Harmed others? No, I don't uphold them. They made their 

blessing a curse. 
Must I be denied for their sinning ? Must the weak ones govern 

the race ? 
Why, every good thing God has given is only a curse out of place. 
It's only excess that destroys us. A little is good now and then." 
From the white-haired, pious old deacon came a fervent loud 

spoken "Amen ! " 
Then a murmur arose up from the people from amidst that Usten- 

ing throng. 
They had come from their homes with a purpose to crush out and 

trample out wrong. 
But their time-honored, worthy physician, grown portly in person 

and purse, 
Had shown in the demon of darkness a blessing instead of a curse ; 
And now they were eager, impatient, to vote when the moment 

should come ; 
They felt it their right and their duty to license the selling of rum. 







OUB FAVOBITES. 

Then up from a seat in the corner, from among the listening 
throng, 

From amidst the people there gathered to crush out and trample 
out wrong. 

Rose a woman, her thin hands uplifted, while from her frost-cov- 
ered hair 

Gazed a face of such agonized whiteness, a face of such utter de- 
spair, 

The vast throng grew hushed in a moiflent, grew silent with terror 
and dread. 

They gazed on the face of that woman as we gaze on the face of 
the dead. 

Then the hush and the silence was broken, a voice so shrill and so 
clear 

Rang out thro' the room: "Look upon me; ye wonder what 
chance brought me here. 

Ye know me, an' now ye shall hear me ; I speak to you, lovers of 
wine; 

For once I was young, rich and happy, home, husband and chil- 
dren were mine. 

Where are they ? I ask you. Where are they ? 

My beautiful home went to pay the deacon who sold them the 
poison that dragged them down lower each day. 

I plead, I besought, I entreated, I showed them the path they were 
in, 

But the deacon said, they beUeved him, that only excess was a sin. 

An' where are my boys ? God forgive you ! They heeded your 
counsel, not mine. 

You, doctor, beloved an' respected, you could see no danger in 
wine. 

Me boys so proud an' so manly, me husband so noble an' brave, 

They lie in the church-yard side by side, each filling a drunkard's 
grave. 

I have come from the poorhouse to tell me story, an' now it is done. 

Go on if ye will, in yer madness, and license the selling of ram ; 

Before the great judgment eternal, when the last dread moment 
has come, 

ShaU I stand there to witness against you, my dear friends, the 
victims of rum ? " 




i 






A PAEODT. 



A PARODY. 

The boy stood on tlie back-yard fence, whence all but him had fled ; 
The flames that lit his father's barn shone just above the shed. 
One bunch of crackers in his hand, two others in his hat, 
With piteous accents loud he cried, " I never thought of that ! " 
A bunch of crackers to the tail of one small dog he'd tied ; 
The dog ia anguish sought the barn, and 'mid its ruins died. 
The sparks flew wide, and red and hot, they ht upon that brat ; 
They fired the crackers in his hand, and e'en those ia his hat. 

Then came a burst of rattling sound — the boy ! Where was he 

gone ? 
Ask of the winds that far around strewed bits of meat and bone : 
And scraps of clothes, and balls, and tops, and naUs, and hooks, 

and yarn — 
The rehcs of that dreadful boy that burnt his father's barn. 




ROOM AT THE TOP. 

'Mm the hm^ry and strife in the pathway of Kf e, 
Those who press with the jostling crowd 

Must tread in the footsteps where others have trod, 
Stand only where others have stood. 

But he who would stray from the old beaten way 

Must oft go unblest and alone : — 
Must seek for himself a path all untrod. 

Though he bridge it, or hew it of stone ! 

There are thousands to go in a way prescribed so, 

To one, who successful, would lead, 
Or dare to dissent from the time-honored nde, 

Nor the taunts of the multitude heed. 






OUB FAVORITES. 

Thus, the higher we scale up the mount from the vale, 
One by one from the rocks will out drop, — 

Those who toiled by our side, till for valiant and strong. 
There is always found room at the top. 

'Tis noble to dare, and the rough way prepare 

For a loftier purpose in life ! 
A higher endeavor ne'er failed of its meed, 

Though it grasp not the bays in the strife. 

And 'tis only to him who strives that shall win ; 

The victor will never find place 
With idlers that loitered along by the way, 

Or started not out in the race. 

Up the ladder of fame there are few that wiU climb 

To its loftiest height with brave hope ; 
Though its base may e'er rest with the clamoring throng, 

There wiU always be room at the top ! 

Strive on, though with fears ! As the far summit nears, 

Look not downward, but ever up ; 
However so crowded the heights that are gained, 

There will always be room at the top. 




THE FOURTH OF JULY. 

Patrick an' Bridget, just shtep stiU the door ; 

Faith ! seed ye ever the loike soight before ? 

Flags aU a-flyin' fi-om windy an' roof, 

Horses decked wid 'em from forelock to hoof ', 

AU the small childer a-poppin' off cracks — 

Troth, but they sound loike shillelahs' bould whacks ! 

Shpake up, swate Biddy, an' answer me, Pat ; 

Seed yez in Kerry the loike of all that ? 

" Phat is the row ? " to a shpalpeen, sez I, 

" Dade, thin," sez he, " it's the Foorth uv July ! " 





ASLEEP AT THE SWITCH. 

Thin I drawed in from the windy me head, 

Not "wan word wiser for all that he said ; 

Long kem a leddy, so shmoilin' an' gay, 

Troth, I spyakes oop till hersilf wid me say : 

" Plaze, mem," I axed her, " what manes the parade 

Whoy is the racket an' blatherin' made ? 

Who's been a-f oightia', an' what was the row ? 

Shtop a bit, leddy, an' teU me thrue, now." 

Faith she looks oop, wid the shmoUe in her eye, 

" They're siUyhratin! the Foorth uv July ! " 

What a gossoon wu^ this Foorth nv July ! 

Who was the cratur', an' whin did he die ? 

Whist ! Biddy, darhnt, an' hear the band play ! 

See the lads steppia' so frisky an' gay ! 

Botdd sojer laddies in all theii' galore, 

Troth, but there's music an' dhrums to the fore ! 

Flags all a-flyin' an' powdher ablaze — 

Thrue for yez, Biddy, these folk have quare ways. 

Sure, thin, St. Pathiick was betther, sez I, 

A dale betther mon, nor the Foorth uv July. 




ASLEEP AT THE SWITCH. 

The first thing I remember was Carlo tugging away, 

With the sleeve of my coat fast in his teeth, pulling, as much as to 

say: 
" Come, master, awake, attend to the switch," lives now depend 

upon you. 
Think of the soids in the coming train, and the graves you are 

sending them to. 
Think of the mother and the babe at her breast, think of the 

father and son. 
Think of the lover and loved ones, too ; think of them doomed 

every one 







OUR FAVOEITES. 

To fall, as it were, from your very hand into yon fathomless ditch, 

Murdered by one who should guard them from harm, who now lies 
asleep at the switch." 

I sprang up amazed, scarce knew where I stood, sleep had over- 
mastered me so. 

I could hear the wind hoUowly howling, and the deep river dash- 
ing below ; 

I could hear the forest leaves rustling, as the trees by the tempest 
were fanned. 

But what was that noise in the distance, that I coidd not quite un- 
derstand ? 

I heard it at first indistinctly, like the rolling of some muffled 
drum; 

Then nearer and nearer it came to me, till it made my very ears 
hum — 

What is this light that surrounds me, and seems to set fire to my 
brain? 

What whistle's that yelling so shrill f Oh ! I know, it's the train. 

We often stand facing some danger, and seem to take root to the 
place. 

So I stood with this demon before me, its heated breath scorching 
my face. 

Its headlight made daylight of darkness, and glared hke the eyes 
of some witch. 

The train was almost upon me before I remembered the switch. 

I sprang to it, seizrag it wildly, the train dashing fast down the 
track. 

The switch resisted my efforts, some demon seemed holding it back. 

On, on, came the fiery-eyed monster, and shot by my face like a 
flash, 

I swooned to the earth the next moment, and knew nothing of the 
great crash. 

How long I remained there tmconscious, 'tis impossible for me to 
teU; 

But my stupor was almost a heaven, and my waking almost a heU. 

For then I heard the piteous moaning and shrieking of husbands 
and wives. 

And I thought of the day we all shrink from, when I must account 
for their lives. 




r^ 






ASLEEP AT THE SWITCH. 



Mothers rushed by me hke maniacs, their eyes glaring madly and 

wild; 
Fathers, losing their courage, gave way to their grief like a child ; 
Childi-en, searching for parents, I noticed as by me they sped — 
And Hps that could form naught but mamma, were calling for one 

perhaps dead. 
My mind was made up in a moment — ^the river should hide me 

away, 
"When under the still bnmitig rafters I suddenly noticed there lay 
A httle white hand. She who owned it was doubtless an object 

of love 
To him whom her loss would drive frantic, though she guarded him 

now from above. 
I tenderly lifted the rafters, and quietly laid them one side — 
Oh ! how httle she thought of the journey when she left for this 

dark fatal ride. 
I lifted the last log from off her. While searching for some spark 

of life. 
Turned her httle face up iu the starhght, and recognized Maggie ! 

my wife ! 

Lord ! Thy scourge is a hard one. At a blow Thou has shat- 

tered my pride, 
My life wiU be one endless nightmare, with Maggie away from my 
side. 

1 fancied I stood on trial — the jury and judge I could see — 
And every eye in the court-room was steadily fixed upon me, 
And fingers were poiatiag iu scorn, till I felt my face blushing 

blood red. 
And the next thing I heard were the words: "Hanged, sir! 

Hanged by the neck untO. dead ! " 
Then I felt myself pulled once again, and my hand caught tight 

hold of a dress. 
And I heard : " What's the matter, dear Jim ? You've had a bad 

nightmare, I guess." 
And there stood Maggie, my wife, with never a scar from the ditch. 
I'd been taking a nap on my couch, and had not been asleep at 

the switch. 







OUB FAVOBITES. 



THE VILLAGE CHOIR. 

Half a bar, liaM a bar, 
Half a bar onward ! 
Into an awful ditch. 
Choir and precentor hitch, 
Into a mess of pitch. 
They led the Old Hundred. 
Trebles to right of them. 
Tenors to left of them. 
Basses in front of them. 

Bellowed and thundered. 
Oh, that precentor's look. 
When the sopranos took 
Their own time and hook 
From the Old Hundred. 

Screeched all the trebles here. 
Boggled the tenors there. 
Raising the parson's hair. 

While his mind wandered ; 
Theirs not to reason why 
This psalm was pitched too high ; 
Theirs but to gasp and cry 

Out the Old Hundred. 
Trebles to right of them, 
Tenors to left of them, 
Basses in front of them. 

Bellowed and thundered. 
Stormed they with shout and yeU, 
Not wise they rang, nor well. 
Drowning the sexton's beU, 

While all the church wondered. 

Dire the precentor's glare. 
Flashed his pitchfork in air, 
Sounding the fresh keys to bear 
Out the Old Hundi-ed. 






NOTHING. 

Swiftly he turned his back, 
Reached he his hat from rack, 
Then from the screaming pack, 

Himself he sundered. 
Tenors to right of him, 
Trebles to left of him. 
Discords behind him 

Bellowed and thundered. 
Oh, the wild howls they wrought 
Right to the end they fought ! 
Some tune they sang, but not. 
Not the Old Hundred. 





NOTHING. 

" Blessed be nothing ! " an old woman said. 
As she scrubbed away for her daily bread ; 
" I'm better off than my neighbor, the squire ; 
He's afraid of robbers, afraid of fire. 
Afraid of flood to wreck his mill. 
Afraid of something to cross his wUl. 
I've nothing to burn, and nothing to steal 
But a bit of pork and a barrel of meal. 
A house that only keeps off the rain 
Is easy burnt up and built again ! 
I sing at my washing, and sleep all night. 
Blessed be nothing ! My heart is Ught." 

" Blessed be nothing ! " the young man cried. 
As he turned with a snule to his smiling bride 
" Banks are breaking, and stocks are down ; 
There's dread and bitterness all over town ; 
There are brokers groaning and bankers sad. 
And men whose losses have made them mad ; 
There's silk and satin, but want of bread. 
And many a woman would fain be dead, 





OTJB FAVORITES. 




Whose little cMldren sob and cKng 
For the daily joy she cannot bring. 
Blessed be nothing, for you and me ! 
"We have no riches on wings to flee." 

Blessed be nothing ! if man might choose, 

For he who hath it hath nought to lose ; 

Nothing to fear from flood or fire, 

AU things to hope for and desire ; 

The dream that is better than waMng days ; 

The future that feeds the longing gaze. 

Better, far better, than aught we hold, 

As far as mining exceedeth gold, 

Or hope fruition in earth below. 

Or peace that is ia us outward show. 

Almost, when worn by weary years. 

Tired with a pathway of thorns and tears. 

When kindred fail us, and love has fled. 

And we know the hving less than the dead. 

We think that the best of mortal good 

Is a painless, friendless solitude. 

For the pangs are more than the peace they give 

Who make our hves so sad to Uve. 

Blessed be nothing ! it knows no loss. 

Nor the sharpest nail of the Master's cross ; 

No friend to deny us, of none bereft. 

And though we have no one, yet God is left. 

Yet, having nothing, the whole is ours. 

No thorns can pierce us who have no flowers ; 

And sure is the promise of His word, 

Thy poor are blessed in spirit. Lord ! 

Whatever we lose of wealth or care, 

StiU there is left us the breath of prayer — 

That heavenly breath of a world so high, 

Sorrow and stuning come not nigh ; 

The sure and certain mercy of Hitn 

Who sitteth between the cherubim, 






THE MOTHEB'S BEPBOOF. 

Yet cares for the lonely sparrow's fall, 
And is ready and eager to lielp us all. 
Ricli is His bounty to aU beneath ; 
To the poorest and saddest He giveth death. 




THE MOTHER'S REPROOF. 




MRS. E. P. REQUA. 

A LIGHT footfall on the sounding floor, 

And a tiny face peeps in at the door, 

"Ah, mamma, I've found you out at last ; 

"Why did you shut you in so fast ? 

Mamma, doUy has lost her shoe, 

I can't find it anywhere ; come and look too." 

I laid down my pen with numerous sighs, 

And started on this new enterprise ; 

Search and research were all ia vain, 

Till a bright thought was born in my brain. 

I opened the oven door, and lo ! 

There lay the shoe as black as a sloe ! 

Laid iu a patty-pan, baked for a pie, 

" You've ruined your doUy's shoe," cried I ; 

She simply arched her eyebrows, when 

She answered, " Make her another, then." 

Vainly I seek some quiet nook. 

In which to hide with my pen or book ; 

Vainly, for each new-found retreat 

Is still invaded by pattering feet ; 

Pattering feet, and demands Hke these — 

" Mamma, a pencil and ink, if you please ; 

See, I am coming to sit down by you ; 

Mamma is writing, I want to write, too." 

Till a spirit that nature had never endowed 

With marvellous patience, made murmur loud : 

"At such a lot I may well repine. 

Ne'er was more absolute thraUdom than mine." 




OUB FAVORITES. 






This, in tlie day of my pride and strength ; 
The coveted freedom came at length, 
Came, and it lay on my spirit sore. 
No pattering feet on the sUent floor ! 
Quiet and leisure, could that suffice, 
Quiet and leisure at such a price ! 
My favorite authors in vain invite ; 
" No little face will intrude to-night ; " 
I turned to my needle, the arrowy grief 
That pierced me, on viewing the half -formed leaf, 
On a little garment that ne'er will be worn ; 
Wen I remember the sorrowful mom, 
When two little arms were over it placed. 
And I threw it aside in petulant haste. 
Mothers, weighed down with a mother's care, 
Thinking your burdens too great to bear. 
Tempted your hearts at their lot to repine, 
Could ye but fathom the sorrow of mine ! 
Mothers, whose little ones round you throng, 
Cherish them, sing to them aU the day long. 

Ye may rejoice, but never I, 

Whose hopes entombed with my darling He. 

O joyless mother ! O garish sun ! 

O coveted wealth that the grave has won ! 

In this empty world I find no part — 

Where shall I go with my breaking heart ? 

Why sinks not my frame beneath the stroke ? 

With anguish no words can depict I wolce ! 

She lay there beside me in slumber mild, 

My lost, and recovered, and living child ! 

Nor yet had the light of morning broke. 

But her eyes to the touch of my lips awoke. 

She marvelled to see the smiles and tears 

That greeted her waking : " Dearest of dears. 

Mother and you wiU be merry to-day ; 

You shall help me write, and I'll help you play; 

DoUy shall have two pairs of new shoes. 

And anything else that my darling may choose." 





THE ROUND OF LIFE. 



The little ai'ms around me were thrown, 
The little breast heaved agaiast my own ; 
Ye only, who thus have suffered, may guess 
The hallowed rapture of that caress ! 




THE EOUND OF LIFE. 




ALEXANDER LAMONT. 

Two children down by the shining strand, 

With eyes as blue as the summer sea, 
While the sinking sun fills all the land 

With the glow of a golden mystery : 
Laughing aloud at the sea-mew's cry, 

Gazing with joy on its snowy breast, 
Till the first star looks from the evening sky, 

And the amber bars stretch over the west. 

A soft green dell by the breezy shore, 

A sailor lad and a maiden fair ; 
Hand clasped in hand, while the tale of yore 

Is borne again on the Hstening air, 
For love is young, though love be old. 

And love alone the heart can fill ; 
And the dear old tale, that has been told 

In the days gone by, is spoken still. 

A trim-built home on a sheltered bay ; 

A wife looking out on the listening sea ; 
A prayer for the loved one far away. 

And prattling imps 'neath the old roof -tree ; 
A lifted latch and a radiant face 

By the open door in the falling night ; 
A welcome home and a warm embrace 

From the love of his youth and his childi*en bright. 

An aged man iu an old arm-chair ; 
A golden Hght from the western sky ; 





OUR FAVORITES. 

His "wife by his side, with her silvered hah-, 
And the open book of G-od close by, 

Sweet on the bay the gloaming falls, 
And bright is the glow of the evening star ; 

But dearer to them are the jasper walls 
And the golden streets of the Land afar. 

An old ehnrch-yard on a green hillside, 

Two lying still in their peacef id rest ; 
The fishermen's boats going out with the tide 

In the fiery glow of the amber west. 
Children's laughter and old men's sighs, 

The night that follows the morning clear, 
A rainbow bridging our darkened skies, 

Are the round of our lives from year to year. 





PARTING. 

The truest friends must part, they say, 
The fondest hearts must sever, 

But friendship's bonds may last for aye, 
And mem'ry Hve forever. 

And you will go, and I shall miss 
Each word, each look, each smile, 

Each vanish'd pressure of your Mss, 
And long for you the wMle. 

Each thing that we have seen and lov'd. 
Each flow'r, each bird, each tree, 

Each place where we've together rov'd 
Win hold a charm for me. 

Then fare you well — this parting's pain 
To those whom Fate must sever, 

I only say good-bye again — 
And trust 'tis not forever ! 





OUE CHRISTMAS. 



OUR CHRISTMAS. 



JULIA WALCOTT. 





We didn't have mucli of a Christmas, 

My papa and Rosie and me, 
Tor mamma'd gone out to the prison 

To trim np the poor pris'ner's tree ; 
Ahd Ethel, my big grown-up sister, 

"Was down at the 'sylum all day, 
To help at the great turkey dinner. 

And teach games for the orphans to play. 
She belongs to a club of young ladies, 

With a " beautiful ohjich" they say, 
'Tis to go among poor lonesome children 

And make all their sad hearts more gay. 

And Auntie, you don't know my Auntie ? 

She's my own papa's half-sister Kate ; 
She was 'bUged to be round at the chapel 

Till 'twas, — Oh, sometimes dreadfully late, 
For she pities the poor worn-out curate : 

BDis burdens, she says, are so great. 
So she 'ranges the flowers and the music. 

And he goes home around by our gate. 
I should think this way must be the longest. 

But then, I suppose he knows best, 
Aimt Kate says he intones most splendid ; 

And his name is Vane Algernon West. 

My papa had bought a big turkey, 

And had it sent home Christmas Eve ; 
But there wasn't a soul here to cook it. 

You see Bridget had threatened to leave 
If she couldn't go off with her cousia, 

(He doesn't look like her one bit), 
She says she belongs to a " union," 

And the union won't let her submit. 





OUB FAVORITES. 




So we ate bread and milk for our dinner, 
And some raisins and candy, and then 

Rose and me went down-stairs to tlie pantry 
To look at the turkey again. 

Papa said he would take us out riding — 

Then he thought that he didn't quite dare, 
For Rosie'd got cold and kept coughing ; 

There was dampness and chills in the air. 
Oh, the day was so long and so lonesome ! 

And our papa was lonesome as we ; 
And the parlor was dreary — ^no sunshine. 

And all the sweet roses, — the tea. 
And the red ones, and ferns and carnations. 

That have made our bay-window so bright, 
Mamma'd picked for the men at the prison ; 

To make their bad hearts pure and white. 

And we all sat up close to the window. 

Rose and me on oiu* papa's two knees. 
And we coimted the dear Uttle birdies 

That were hopping about on the trees. 
Rosie wanted to be a brown sparrow ; 

But I thought I would rather, by far. 
Be a robin that flies away winters 

"Where the sunshine and gay blossoms are. 
And papa wished he was a jail-bird, 

'Cause he thought that they fared the best ; 
But we all were real glad we weren't turkeys, 

For then we'd been killed with the rest. 




That night I put into my prayers, — 

" Dear God, we've been lonesome to-day, 
For Mamma, Aunt, Ethel, and Bridget, 

Every one of them all went away. — 
Won't you please make a club, or society, 

'Fore it's time for next Christmas to be, 
To take care of pMlanterpists' f am'hes, 

Like papa and Rosie and me ? " — 





WHITE THEM A LETTER TO-NIGHT. 

And I think that my papa's grown pious, 
For he listened, as still as a mouse. 

Till I got to Amen ; — then he said it 
So it sounded all over the house. 




WEITE THEM A LETTER TO-NiaHT. 




OLYETTE ELLIS. 

Don't go to the theatre, grange or ball, 

But stay in your room to-night ; 
Deny yourself of the friends that call, 

And a good long letter write — 
Write to the sad old folks at home, 

Who sit when the day is done. 
With folded hands and downcast eyes. 

And think of the absent one. 

Don't selfishly scribble " excuse my haste, 

I've scarcely the time to write," 
Lest their brooding thoughts go wandering back 

To many a by-gone night. 
When they lost their needed sleep and rest, 

And every breath was a prayer — 
That God would leave their delicate babe 

To their tender love and care. 

Don't let them feel that you've no more need 

Of their love or coimsel wise ; 
For the heart grows strongly sensitive 

When age has dimmed the eyes — 
It might be well to let them believe 

You never forgot them, quite ; 
That you deem it a pleasure, when far away, 

Long letters home to wi'ite. 





OUB FAVORITES. 

Don't tihink that tlie young and giddy friends, 

Who make your pastime gay, 
Have half the anxious thought for you 

That the old folks have to-day. 
The duty of writing do not put off ; 

Let sleep or pleasure wait, 
Lest the letter for which they looked and longed 

Be a day or an hoiu* too late. 

Por the sad old folks at home, 

With locks fast turning white, 
Ai'e longing to hear from the absent one — 

Write them a letter to-night. 





THE RIDE OF GREAT-aRANDMOTHER LEE. 

[a story of revolutionary times.] 

eben e. rexford. 

Tms is the tale of Great-grandmother Lee, 
Just as my grandmother told it to me ; 
A tale of the old Colonial time. 
And a woman's bravery, set to rhyme. 

Great-grandmother Lee was a maiden then, 
But her hand was promised a lover when 
The war for freedom was fought and won, 
And the world applauded a grand deed done 
By those who in action and brave words spoke 
The anger they felt 'neath a tyrant's yoke. 
'' We win be free of it." Thus said they. 
" Down with King George's galling sway ! " 

There was fighting near and fighting far ; 
The air seemed charged with the stress of war. 
Never a day went by that brought 
No rumor of battle somewhere fought, 





THE EIDE OF aBEAT-GEANBMOTHER LEE. 





And those at home almost held their breath 
As the days went by with their tales of death. 

Backward and forward, on every side, 
Swept the ever-changing battle-tide ; 
Often it brought near home the men 
Who had gone to the war, then turned again 
And bore them farther and farther away, 
And no tidings would come for many a day 
From those whose lot was to come and go 
As the winds of conflict might chance to blow. 

One day a postman brought news that stirred 

With eager hope all the hearts that heard ; 

" Lieutenant Lee' had been sent," he said, 

" With twoscore men to Marblehead 

In charge of some prisoners. It might be 

They would come that way." At the name of Lee, 

How the eyes of Grreat-grandmother Ruth grew bright, 

And the heart that was heavy with hope grew hght ! 

But next day the news went about the town 
That a band of Britishers, marching down 
From Boston or Concord, had been seen 
That town and the Mai'blehead hills between. 
" They will he in wait for Lieutenant Lee, 
And, dreaming not of his danger, he 
Will keep straight on tiU it is too late 
To escape the foes that in ambush wait." 

Great-grandmother Ruth heard the news they brought, 

And up to her brain leaped a sudden thought — 

Some one must go, and at once, to warn 

Lieutenant Lee. Ere another mom 

He might fall, perhaps, an easy prey 

To the British men who in ambush lay. 

But who should go ? All the men in town 

Were old, or crippled, or broken down 

With wounds or sickness. " Not one," cried she, 

" To carry the news to Lieutenant Lee ! 







OUB FAVORITES. 

I will go myself." And her blue eyes shone 
With a courage bom not of love alone, 
But the spirit that nerved the arm and heart 
Of those who in war bore a soldier's part. 
"A woman can't fight very well," she said; 
" But there's many a thing she can do instead 
That's as good as fighting. My British men, 
I'll take a hand in your game." And then 
She saddled her horse, and as night came down, 
They saw her galloping out of the town. 
" She goes to warn her lover," they said, 
" Of a danger that lurks in the way ahead. 
Brave is the girl's heart and strong her steed," 
And every one cheered her and said " Grod speed ! " 

Twoscore miles to make ere the first cock crowed — 

Grreat-grandmother Ruth planned her route as she rode, 

" Lieutenant Lee and his men will take 

The old post-road by Hingham's Lake ; 

There I must meet them, and they can turn 

To the north on the highway that runs by Kern ; 

And thus they can shp past the ambushed foe 

Who hides on the new road, miles below. 

Ah, ha ! my Britishers, watch and wait ; 

You'll find out the truth when it is too late ! " 

The dusk closed round her ; the stars grew bright, 
And the moon made day of the brief June night. 
** Five miles are behind us," she cried, as she passed 
The ford in the valley, and still more fast 
She urged her steed down the road that runs 
Through Sudbury town and the smaller ones 
That he to the south. Often those in bed 
Were roused by the sound of a horse's tread. 
And said to each other, " Some one rides fast," 
And e'en as they said it the place was passed 
By the midnight rider. " The stars say One," 
She cried to her horse, " and our ride's half done." 

Two — " We do well." Three — " The miles are few. 
Doll, do you know what depends on you ? " 





THE BIDE OF GBEAT-GRANDMOTHEB LEE. 





Four — and upon her keen eyes break 

The sight she has longed for of Hingham's Lake. 

" Our ride is ended," and she draws rein 

In the shade of the pine trees on Hingham's plain, 

To wait for the coming of those who are nigh, 

With a smile on her lip and a laughing eye. 

" Hark ! they are coming. Grood steed of mine, 
We will bid them stand and give countersign," 
She says, as the tramp of men's feet sounds near. 
" He, my lover, is almost here," 
And her face grows bright like a damask rose 
When all of a sudden its leaves unclose 
At a warm wind's kiss, and break all apart. 
To reveal the glow at the blossom's heart. 

" Halt ! " The soldiers, startled, heard 

A woman's voice speak the weU-known word ; 

Then out of the shadow of pines rode she. 

"Ruth, my Euth ! " cried Lieutenant Lee, 

" Is this your ghost, or are you a dream ? " 

Then his arms were round her, and it would seem 

That the touch of her hps was proof enough 

That the vision was hardly of ghostly stuff. 

" There's no time for love-making now," laughed she ; 

" There's something more urgent. Lieutenant Lee." 

Then she told them what she had come to tell. 

" Ruth, my heroine, you've done well," 

Cried Lieutenant Lee, and his face was bright. 

" Such help as this nerves our hearts for fight. 

Men, what say you ? This girl should be 

Made colonel, at least, for her bravery. 

Cheers for brave Colonel Ruth, my men ! " 

And the morning rang and rang again 

With hearty cheers for the gu-1 whose deed 

Had brought them warning in time of need. 

There is Httle need for me to make 
The story longer. At Hingham's Lake 





OTJB FAVOBITES. 

They turned to the north, and by this detour 
The British were left in the lurch. Quite sure 
Am I that no happier girl than she 
Who rode by the side of Lieutenant Lee 
Could be found in all the land that day. 
Ere night in Marblehead safe were they. 
The story of Ruth and her long night ride 
Spread through the -soUage and country side, 
And they came in crowds, it is said, to pay 
Respect to her, and " WeU done " to say. 
" I don't care so much for their praise," said she, 
As she smiled in the face of Lieutenant Lee, 
"As I do to know that I helped you play 
A trick on the British, and won the day." 





PATRICK DOLIN'S LOVE-LETTER. 

It's Patrick Dolin meself and no other, 

That's after inf ormin' you without any bother. 

That your own darling self put me heart in a blaze, 

And made me your sweetheart the rest of my days, 

So now I sits down to write ye this letter. 

To teU how I loves ye, as none can love better. 

Mony's the day sure since first I got smitten 

With your own purty face that's as bright as a kitten's, 

And yer iUigant Agger, that's just the right size. 

Faith, I'm all over in love wid ye, clear up to the eyes, 

And if these feehn's you'U only reciprocate, 

I gives ye my hand and heart, everything but me hate. 

Och, now while I write, me heart's in a flutter. 

For I can't help f eehn' every word that I utter ; 

You'U think me deceivin', or teUin' a he. 

If I teU who's in love wid me, just ready to die ; 

There's Bridget McCregan, fuU of eoketish tricks, 

Keeps flatterin' me pride to get me heart in a fix ; 

And Bridget, ye know, has gi-eat expectations. 

From the father that's dead, and lots of relations ; 







PATRICE DOLIN'S LOVE-LEITEB. 

Then there's Biddy O'Farrel, the cunmngest elf, 

Sings " Patrick me darhng," and that manes meself ; 

I might marry them both if I felt so inclined, 

But there's no use talking of the likes of then- kind : 

I trates them alike without any imparshahty, 

And maintaia meself on the ground of neutrahty, 

For the same I've got meself in a quonderum, 

For they keep tazing and tazing, to make me fond of them ; 

But the more they taze me, the greater the dislike, 

And it's sick that I am with their blathering sight. 

If there's any truth in dreams, we'd been one long ago, 

For I keep di'eaming eveiy night, I am lovin' ye so. 

By the holy St. Patrick, I loves ye and no other, 

And for the likes of ye forsake father and mother. 

On me knees, Helen darling, I ask yer consent, 

For better or worse, without a rid cent ; 

If ye refuse me, bedad, I'm like to go crazy. 

And cut me throat with a razor to make me soiil aisy. 

I'm a CathoHc, ye know, but for the sake of relation, 

WoTildn't mind to change creed and sign a recantation. 

I'd do anything in the world, anything ye would say, 

If ye'd be Mistress Dohn instead of IVIiss Day, 

I'd save aU me money, and buy a new coat. 

And go to New Orleans by the steam packet-boat ; 

I'd buy a half acre and build a nice house. 

Where nothing woxdd taze us, so much as a mouse ; 

And you'll hear nothing else, from year out to year in, 

But sweet words of kindness from yer Patrick Dohn. 

As to the matter of property, Helen me honey, 

I've great expectations, but not a ha'p'orth of money ; 

Me father's a merchant who keeps a great store, 

"Waem Meals for a Quarther" is the sign on the 

door; 
And there he sells Hckers, and all sorts of trash 
That beats all the stores for bringing in cash ; 
But better than all is me kind-hearted ould aunty 
That lives in the patch in her nate httle shanty. 
For oft have I dreamed me ould aunty had died 
And left me her shanty, with a trifle beside. 






OUIt FAVOBITES. 

'Tis meself that -would say, predicting no wrong, 
That aunty must die some time before very long, 
And every morning I'm waking, 'tis expecting to find 
That the spirit has left aunty and shanty behind ; 
Then there on the patch would we Mve, Helen darhn', 
"With never a hard word, bickering or quarreUin' ; 
But if ye should die — ^forgive me the thought, 
I'd behave meseK as a dacent man ought ; 
I'd spend all me days in wailing and crying. 
And wish for nothing better than just to be dying. 
You'd see on marble slabs, reared up side by side, 
" Here lies Patrick DoHn." " Here lies Helen his bride." 
Yer indulgence in conclusion on my letter I ask. 
For to write a love-letter is no aisy task ; 
I've an impediment of speech, as me letter aU shows. 
And a cold in me head that makes me write through me nose. 
Please write me a letter, to me great-uncle's care. 
With the prescription upon it, " Patrick Dohn, Esquire, 
In haste," write in big letters on the outside of the cover. 
And believe me, forever, yer distractionate lover. 
Written with me own hand. 

his 

Patrick x Dolin. 

marlc. 



HANNAH JANE. 



D. R. LOCKE (petroleum V. NASBY.) 



She isn't half so handsome as when, twenty years agone. 
At her old home in Piketon, Parson Avery made us one ; 
The great house crowded full of guests of every degree. 
The girls all envying Hannah Jane, the boys aU envying me. 

Her fingers then were taper, and her skin as white as milk:. 
Her brown hair, what a mass it was ! and soft and fine as silk ; 
No wind-moved willow by a brook had ever such a grace. 
Her form of Aphrodite, with a pure Madonna face. 







HANNAH JANE. 



She had but meagre schooling ; her httle notes to me 

Were full of little pot-hooks, and the worst orthography ; 

Her " dear " she spelled with double e, and " kiss " with but one s ; 

But when one's crazed with passion what's a letter more or less I 

She blundered in. her writing, and ^e blundered when she spoke, 
And every rule of syntax, that old Murray made, she broke ; 
But she was beautiful and fresh, and I — well, I was young ; 
Her form and face o'erbalanced all the blunders of her tongue. 

I was but little better. True, I'd longer been at school ; 
My tongue and pen were run, perhaps, a httle more by rule ; 
But that was all, the neighbors round who both of us weU knew, 
Said, which I believed — she was the better of the two. 

All's changed ; the light of seventeen's no longer in her eyes ; 
Her wavy hair is gone — that loss the coiffeur's art suppHes ; 
Her form is thin and angular, she shghtly forward bends ; 
Her fingers, once so shapely, now are stumpy at the ends. 

She knows but very little, and in httle are we one ; 

The beauty rare, that more than hid that great defect, is gone. 

My parvenu relations now deride my homely wife. 

And pity me that I am tied to such a clod for hfe. 

I know there is a difference ; at reception and levee 
The brightest, wittiest, and most famed of women snule on me ; 
And everywhere I hold my place among the greatest men ; 
And sometimes sigh, with Whittier's judge, "Alas ! it might have 
been." 

When they all crowd around me, stately dames and brilliant belles, 
And yield to me the homage that aU great success compels. 
Discussing art and statecraft, and hterature as well. 
From Homer down to Thackeray, and Swedenborg on " hell," 

I can't forget that from these streams my wife has never quaffed. 
Has never with OpheHa wept, nor with Jack Falstaff laughed ; 
Of authors, actors, artists — ^why, she hardly knows the names. 
She slept while I was speaking on the Alabama claims. 

I can't forget — ^just at this point another form appears — 
The wife I wedded as she was before my prosperous years ; 








OUB FArOBITES. 



I travel o'er the dreary road we travelled side by side, 

And wonder what my share would be if Justice should divide ! 

She had four hundred dollars left her from the old estate ; 
On that we married, and, thus poorly armored, faced our fate. 
I wi'estled with my books ; her task was harder far than mine, — 
'Twas how to make two hundred dollars do the work of nine. 

At last I was admitted, then I had my legal lore, 
An office with a stove and desk, of books perhaps a score ; 
She had her beauty and her youth, and some housewifely skiU ; 
And love for me and faith in me, and back of that a wiU. 

I had no friends behind me — no iufluenee to aid ; 
I worked and fought for every httle inch of ground I made. 
And how she fought beside me ! never woman lived on less ; 
In two long years she never spent a single cent for dress. 

Ah ! how she cried for joy when my first legal fight was won. 
When our eclipse passed partly by and we stood in the sun ; 
The fee was fifty dollars — 'twas the work of halE a year — 
First captive, lean and scraggy, of my legal bow and spear. 

I well remember when my coat (the only one I had). 

Was seedy grown and threadbare, and ia fact, most " shocking bad," 

The tailor's stem remark when I a modest order made : 

" Cash is the basis, sir, on which we tailors do oui' trade ! " 

Her winter cloak was iu his shop by noon that very day ; 

She wrought on hickory shirts at night that tailor's skiU to pay ; 

I got a coat, and wore it ; but alas, poor Hannah Jane 

Ne'er went to church or lecture till warm weather came again. 

Oui* second season she refused a cloak of any sort. 
That I might have a decent suit in which t' appear in court ; 
She made her last year's bonnet do, that I might have a hat ; 
Talk of the old-time flame-enveloped martyrs after that ! 

No negro ever worked so hard, a servant's pay to save, 
She made herself most willingly a household drudge and slave. 
What wonder that she never read a magazine or book, 
Combining as she did in one, nurse, housemaid, seamstress, cook ! 






HANNAH JANE. 



What wonder that the beauty fled that I once so adored ! 
Her beautiful complexion my fierce kitchen fire devoured ; 
Her plump, fair, soft, rounded arm was once too fair to be con- 
cealed ; 
Hard work for me that softness into sinewy strength congealed. 

I was her altar, and her love the sacrificial flame : 

Oh ! with what piu-e devotion she to that altar came, 

And tearful flung thereon — alas ! I did not know it then — 

All that she was, and more than that, all that she might have been. 

At last I won success. Ah ! then our lives were wider parted ; 
I was far up the rising road ; she, poor girl ! where we started. 
I had tried my speed and mettle, and gained strength in every race ; 
I was far up the heights of life — she drudging at the base. 

She made me take each Fall the stump ; she said 'twas my career ; 
The wild applause of hst'ning crowds was music to my ear. 
"What stimulus had she to cheer her dreary soMtude ? 
For me she Hved, and gladly, in unnatural widowhood. 

She coudn't read my speech, but when the papers all agreed 
'Twas the best one of the session, those comments she could read ; 
And with a gnsh of pride thereat, which I had never felt, 
She sent them to me in a note, with haK the words misspelt. 

I to the legislature went, and said that she should go 
To see the world with me, and what the world was doing, know. 
With tearful snule she answered " No ! four dollars is the pay ; 
The Bates House rates for board /or one is just that siun per day." 

At twenty-eight the State House, on the bench at thirty-three ; 
At forty every gate in life is opened wide to me. 
I niu'sed my powers, and grew, and made my point in hf e ; but she — 
Bearing such pack-horse weary loads, what coidd a woman be ? 

What could she be f shame ! I blush to think what she has 

been — 
The most unselfish of aU wives to the selfishest of men. 
Yes, plain and homely now she is ; she's ignorant, tis 'true ; 
For me she rubbed herself quite out ; I represent the two. 






366 



OVB FAVORITES. 



Well, I suppose that I miglit do as other men have done — 
First break her heart with cold neglect, then shove her out alone. 
The world would say 'twas well, and more, would give great praise 

to me 
For having borne with " such a wife " so uncomplainingly. 

And shall I ? No ! The contract 'twixt Hannah, God, and me, 
Was not for one or twenty years, but for eternity. 
No matter what the world may think ; I know down in my heart, 
That if either, I'm delinquent. She has bravely done her part. 

There's another world beyond this, and on the final day. 
Will intellect and learning 'gainst such devotion weigh ? 
When the great one, made of us two, is torn apart again, 
I'll fare the worst, for God is just, and He knows Hannah Jane. 




THOUGHTS FOR A DISCOURAGED FARMER. 

JAMES WmTCOMB RILEY 

The summer winds is sniffin' round the bloomin' locus' trees. 
And the clover in the pastur' is a big day for the bees, 
And they been a-swiggin' honey, above-board and on the sly. 
Till they stutter in their buzzin' and stagger as they fly. 

They's been a heap o' rain, but the sun's out to-day. 

And the clouds of the wet spell is aU cleared away. 

And the woods is all the greener, and the grass is greener still ; 

It may rain again to-morrow, but I don't think it will. 

Some say the crops is ruined, and the corn's drownded out, 
And propha-sy the wheat wUl be a failure, without doubt ; 
But the kind Providence that has never failed us yet. 
Will be on hand onc't more at the 'leventh hour, I bet ! 

Does the medder-lark complain, as he swims high and dry, 
Through the waves of the wiud and the blue of the sky ? 
Does the quail set up and whistle iu a disappointed way, 
Er hang his head ia silence and sorrow all the day ? 






THE KISS IN TEE TUNNEL. 




Is the cliipimick's health a failure ? Does he walk or does he run ? 
Don't the buzzards ooze around up there, just like they've alius 

done? 
Is there anything the matter with the rooster's lungs or voice ? 
Ort a mortal be complainin' when diunb animals rejoice ? 

Then let us, one and all, be contented with our lot : 
The June is here this morning and the sun is shining hot. 
Oh, let us fill our hearts with the glory of the day, 
And banish ev'iy doubt and care and sorrow far away ! 

"Whatever be our station, with Providence for guide, 

Such fine circumstances ort to make us satisfied ; 

For the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew, 

And the dew is full of heavenly love that drips for me and you. 



THE KISS IN THE TUNNEL. 

They were sitting five seats back, but I plainly heard the smack, 

As we dashed into the tunnel near the town, 
And the currents of my veins ran like gushing April rains. 

Though I'm grave and gray and wear a doctor's gown. 

Once — alas ! so long ago — on the rails I journeyed so. 

With a maiden in a jaunty jersey sack. 
And I kissed her with my eyes, as the timid stars the skies, 

But I longed, oh, how I longed ! for one real smack ! 

Did she know it ? I dare say ! (She'd a sweet clairvoyant way 
In the glancing of her eyes so bright and blue.) 

Ne'er a bee such honey sips as the nectar on her lips ; 
But I longed, and longed in vain, as on we flew. 

Just as yearning reached its height, lo ! there came a sudden night, 
And like steel to magnet clove my mouth to hers ! 

I shall never more forget how like drops of rain they met, 
In the bosom of a rose that lightly stirs ! 






OUB FAVORITES. 

When we came again to light, both our faces had turned white — 
Whi^e as clouds that float ia summer from the South. 

Missed I glances, missed I smiles ! but on air I rode for miles, 
With the sweetness of love's dew upon my mouth. 

So the kiss that some one stole, ia the rayless Stygian hole, 
While with loud imprisoned clangor on we rushed. 

Caused the sluggish streams of age, with young madness leap and 
rage — 
And my wife restored to dayhght, laughed and blushed. 




MAKE THE BEST OF IT. 

Be gay ! What is the use of repining ? 

Merry mirth can keep tears at bay ; 
All sorrows have a joy for their lining. 

Heaven's hope can chase fear away. 

Be gay ! You are to blame if life's dreary ; 

See how Nature smUes thro' her tears ; 
Heavy hearts make the footsteps grow weary, 

But happiness lengthens the years. 

Be gay ! Earth wasn't made for you solely. 

It'll last after you go away. 
It's the soul, not the body, that's holy ; 

Why grieve for a poor lump of clay ? 



THE COMING MILLIONS. 

S. W. FOSS. 

Jim Croker lived far in the woods, a sohtary place. 
Where the bushes grew, like whiskers, on his unrazored face ; 
And the black bear was his brother and the catamount his chimi, 
And Jim he Uved and waited for the millions yet to come. 







THE COMING MILLIONS. 

Jim Croker made a clearing and he sowed it down to wheat, 
And lie filled his lawn with cabbage and he planted it with beet, 
And it blossomed with potatoes, and with peach and pear and 

plum, 
And Jim he hved and waited for the millions yet to come. 

Then Jim he took his ancient axe and cleared a forest street. 
While he lived on bear and succotash and young opossum meat, 
And his rhythmic axe strokes sounded and the woods no more 

were dumb. 
While he cleared a crooked highway for the millions yet to come. 

Then they came like aimless stragglers, they came fi'om far and 

near, 
A httle log house settlement grew round the pioneer ; 
And the sound of saw and broadaxe made a glad iadustrial hum. 
Jim said, " The coming millions, they have just begun to come." 

And a Httle crooked railway wound round mountain, hiU, and lake, 
Crawhng toward the forest village hke an undulating snake ; 
And one mom the locomotive puffed into the wilderness. 
And Jim said, " The comiug miUions, they are coming by express." 

And the village grew and prospered, but Jim Croker's hair was 

grayer ; 
When they got a city charter, and old Jim was chosen Mayor ; 
But Jim decUned the honor, and moved his household goods 
Far away into the forest, to the old primeval woods. 

Far and far into the forest moved the grizzled pioneer. 

There he reared his hut and murmured, " I will build a city here." 

And he hears the woodfox barking, and he hears the partridge 

drum. 
And the old man sits and listens for the millions yet to come. 






OUE FAVORITES. 




THE LIGHTNING-ROD DISPENSER, 



If tlie weary world is willing, I've a little word to say 

Of a lightning-rod dispenser that dropped down on me one day, 

With a poem in his motions, with a sermon in his mien, 

"With hands as white as hlies, and a face uncommon clean. 

No wrinkle had his vestments, and his linen glistened white, 

And his new-constructed necktie was an interesting sight ; 

Which I almost wished his razor had made red that white-sMnned 

throat, 
And the new-constructed necktie had composed a hangman's knot, 
Ere he brought his sleek-trimmed carcass for my woman folks to 

see. 
And his rip-saw tongue a-buzzin' for to gouge a gash in me. 




But I couldn't help but like him — as I always think I must, 

The gold of my own doctrines in a fellow-heap of dust ; 

When I fired my own opinions at this person, round by roimd, 

They drew an answering volley, of a very similar sound. 

I touched him on religion, and the hopes my heart had known ; 

He said he'd had experiences quite similar of his own. 

I told him of the doubtin's that made dark my early years ; 

He had laid awake till morning with that same old breed of 

fears. 
I told him of the rough path I hoped to heaven to go ; 
He was on that very ladder, only just a round below. 
I told him of my visions of the sinfulness of gain ; 
He had seen the self -same picters, though not quite so clear and 

plain. 
Our pohtics was different, and at first he galled and winced ; 
But I arg'ed him so able he was very soon convinced. 

And 'twas getting toward the middle of a hungry summer day ; 
There was dinner on the table, and I asked him would he stay ? 
And he sat down among us, everlasting trim and neat. 
And asked a short, crisp blessing, almost good enough to eat ; 






THE LIGHTNING-ROD DISPENSER. 

Then h.e fired up on the mercies of oui* G-reat Eternal Friend, 
And gave the Lord Almi ghty a good, first-class recommend ; 
And for fuU an hour we listened to the sugar-coated scamp, 
TaUdng Eke a blessed angel — eating Kke a — ^blasted tramp. 

My wife, she Kked the stranger, smiling on him warm and sweet 
(It always flatters women when their guests are on the eat). 
And he hinted that some ladies never lose their early charms. 
And kissed her latest baby, and received it in his arms. 
My sons and daughters liked him, for he had progessive views. 
And chewed the quid of fancy, and gave down the latest news ; 
And couldn't help but like him, as I fear I always must, 
The gold of my own doctrines in a f eUow-heap of dust. 

He was spreading desolation through a piece of apple pie. 
When he paused, and looked upon us with a tear in his off-eye, 
And said, " 0, happy family ! your blessings make me sad ; 
You call to mind the dear ones that in happier days I had : 
A wife as sweet as this one ; a babe as bright and fail' ; 
A Httle girl with ringlets, like that one over there. 
I worshipped them too blindly ! — my eyes with love were dim ! 
God took them to his own heart, and now I worship Him. 
But had I not neglected the means within my way, 
Then they might still be Hving, and loving me to-day. 

" One night there came a tempest, the thunder-peals were dire ; 

The clouds that tramped above us were shooting bolts of fire ; 

In my own house, I, lying, was thinking, to my blame, 

How httle I had guarded against those shafts of flame. 

When, crash ! — ^through roof and ceiling the deadly Ughtning cleft, 

And killed my wife and children, and only I was left. 

" Since that dread time I've wandered, and naught for hfe have 

cared, 
Save to save others' loved ones, whose lives have yet been spared ; 
Since then it is my mission, where'er by sorrow tossed. 
To sell to virtuous people good hghtning-rods — at cost. 
With sure and sti'ong protection I'U clothe your buildings o'er, 
Twin cost you fifty dollars (perhaps a trifle more) ; 
What httle else it comes to at lowest price I'U put 
(You signing this agreement to pay so much per foot)." 






"^ 




OUR FAVORITES. 



I signed it, while my family aU approving stood about, 

And dropped a tear upon it — (but it didn't blot it out) ! 

That very day with wagons came some men, both great and small, 

They climed upon my buildings just as if they owned 'em all ; 

They hacked 'em, and they hewed 'em, much against my loud de- 
sires ; 

They trimmed 'em up with gewgaws, and they boimd 'em down 
with wires ; 

They trimmed 'em and they wired 'em, and they trimmed an' wired 
'em still, 

And every precious minute kept a-running up the bill. 

My soft-spoke guest a-seeking, did I rave and rush and run ; 
He was supping with a neighbor, just a three-mile further on. 
" Do you think," I fiercely shouted, " that I want a mile of wire 
To save each separate hay-cock out o' heaven's consumin' fire ? 
Do you think to keep my buildin's safe from some uncertain harm, 
I'm goin' to deed you over all the balance of my farm ? " 

He looked up quite astonished, with a face devoid of guile, 

And he pointed to the contract with a reassuring smile : 

It was the first occasion that he disagreed with me ; 

But he held me to that paper with a firmness sad to see ; 

And for that thunder story, ere the rascal finally went, 

I paid two himdred dollars, i£ I paid a single cent. 

And if any lightnin'-rodder wants a dinner-dialogue 

"With the restaurant department of an enterprising dog. 

Let him set his mill a-runnin' just inside my outside gate. 

And I'U bet two hundred dollars that he won't have long to wait. 




THE LITTLE PEDDLER. 

I WAS busily sewiag one bright summer day, 

And thought little Chatterbox busy at play, 

When a sunshiny head peeped into my room, 

And a merry voice called, ** Buy a broom ? Buy a broom ? " 





THE MODEL CHVBCH. 

" No, not any to-day, sir," I soberly said, 
But soon the door opened : " Pins, needles, and thread, 
Combs, brushes ? My basket is piled up so high ! 
If yon only will look, ma'am, Fm sure you will buy." 

Again I refused him, but soon he came back, 

This time bending o'er with an odd-looking pack ; 

" Ribbons, collars, and handkerchiefs ? Cheap as can be ; 

They came in my big ship over the sea." 

" Hard times, sir," I answered ; " no money to spare ; 
To seU your fine things you must travel elsewhere." 
His roguish eyes twinkled, as closing the door 
He departed, but came in a minute or more — 

Right under my window, the sly httle fox ! 

Crying, " Strawberries ! Strawberries ! ten cents a box ! " 

I resolved to rewai'd such persistence as this. 

So I bought all he had, and for pay gave a kiss. 




THE MODEL CHURCH. 

Well, wife, I've found the model church ! I worshipped there to- 
day; 
It made me think of good old times, before my hairs were gray. 
The meetin'-house was finer built than they were years ago ; 
But then I foimd, when I went in, it wasn't built for show. 

The sexton didn't seat me 'way back by the door ; 
He knew that I was old and deaf, as weU as old and poor. 
He must have been a Christian, for he led me boldly through 
The long aisle of that pleasant church to find a pleasant pew. 

I wish you'd heard the singin' — it had the old-time ring — 

The preacher said with trumpet- voice, " Let aU the people sing ; " 

The tune was " Coronation," and the music upwards roUed 

Till I thought I heard the angels striking all theii" harps of gold. 







OUB FAVORITES . 



My deafness seemed to melt away, my spirit caught the fire, 
I joined my feeble, trembling voice with that melodious choir, 
And sang, as in my youthful days, " Let angels prostrate fall, 
Bring forth the royal diadem and crown him Lord of aU." 

I tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that hymn once more, 
I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a ghmpse of shore ; 
I almost want to lay aside this weather-beaten form 
And anchor in the blessed port forever from the storm. 

The preachin' ! weU, I can't just teU all that the preacher said ; 

I know it wasn't written, I know it wasn't read ; 

He hadn't time to read, for the Ughtnin' of his eye 

Went passing 'long from pew to pew, nor passed a sinner by. 

The sermon wasn't flowery, 'twas simple Gospel truth. 
It fitted poor old men like me, it fitted hopeful youth. 
'Twas full of consolation for weary hearts that bleed, 
'Twas fuU of mvitations to Christ — and not to creed. 

The preacher made sin hideous in Grentiles and in Jews ; 
He shot the golden sentences straight at the finest pews. 
And, though I can't see very well, I saw the falling tear 
That told me heU was some way off, and heaven very near. 

How swift the golden moments fled within that holy place ! 
How brightly beamed the light of heaven from every happy face ! 
Again I longed for that sweet time when friend shall meet with 

friend. 
When congregations ne'er break up and Sabbaths have no end. 

I hope to meet that minister, the congregation, too, 

Li the dear home beyond the skies, that shines from heaven's blue, 

I doubt not I'll remember, beyond life's evening gray, 

The face of God's dear servant who preached His Word to-day. 



Deal' wife, the fight will soon be fought, the victory be won, 
The shining goal is just ahead, the race is nearly run. 
O'er the river we are nearin', they are thronging to the shore. 
To shout our safe arrival where the weary weep no more. 








A HANDFUL OF EARTH. 



A HANDFUL OF EARTH. 

CELIA THAXTEE. 

Here is a problem, a wonder for all to see : 

Look at this marveUous thing I hold in my hand ! 

This is a magic surprising, a mystery, 

Strange as a miracle, harder to understand. 

What is it ? only a handful of earth ; to your touch 
A dry rough powder you trample beneath your feet ; 

Dark and hf eless ; but think for a moment how much 
It hides and holds that is beautiful, bitter or sweet. 

Think of the glory of color ! The red of the rose, 
Green of the myriad leaves and the fields of grass ; 

Yellow, as bright as the sun, where the daffodil blows, 
Purple where violets nod as the breezes pass. 

Think of the manifold power of the oak and the vine ; 

Nut and fruit and cluster ; and ears of corn ; 
Of the anchored water-Kly, a thing divine ! 

Unfolding its dazzling snow to the kiss of morn. 

Strange that this lifeless thing gives vine, flower, tree. 
Color and shape and character, fragrance, too; 

That the timber which builds the house, the ship for the sea, 
Out of this powder its strength and its toughness drew. 

That the cocoa among the pahns should suck its milk 
From this dry dust, while dates from the self -same soil 

Summer their sweet, rich fruits ; that our shining silk 
The mulberry-leaves should yield to the worm's slow toil. 

Who shall compass or fathom God's thought profound ? 

We can but praise, for we may not understand ; 
But there's no more beautiEul riddle, the whole world round. 

Than is hid in this heap of dust I hold in my hand. 






OUB FAVOBITES. 



IT MIGHT HAVE BEEN. 

It miglit have been ! "WTien life is young, 
And hopes are bright, and hearts are strong 
To battle with the heartless throng, 
When youth and age are far between, 
"Who heeds the words so sadly sung ? — 
It might have been ! 

It might have been ! When hf e is fair, 
Youth stands beside the boundless sea 
That ebbs and flows unceasingly, 
And di'eams of name and golden fame j 
And who shaU limit the To-be 
That's dawning there ? 

It might have been ! When life is bright, 
And love is in. its golden prime. 
Youth reeks not of the coming night, 
Nor dreams that there may be a time 
When love will fail, or change, or die 
Eternally ! 

It might have been ! When Time grows gray, 
And spring-tide's hopes have passed away, 
Old age looks back on by-gone years — 
Their many wants, and doubts, "and fears — 
And through the mist a way is seen : 
The Might-have-been ! 

It might have been ! When age is sad. 
Weary of waiting for the fame 
That after aU is but a name, 
When life has lost the charm it had, 
Tnie knowledge makes regret more keen — 
It might have been ! 

It might have been ! When youth is dead, 
And love that was so false has fled, 






A SONG WITHOUT WOBDS. 

When all the mockeries of the past 
Have lost their tinsel rays at last, 
The one true love is clearly seen, 
That might have been ! 

It might have been ! Ah, me \ ah, me ! 
And who shall tell the misery 
Of knowing aU that hfe has lost ? 
By thinking of the countless cost, 
Poor comfort can the sad heart glean ! 
It might have been ! 

It might have been ! — nay, rather rest, 
Beheving what has been was best ! 
The life whose sun has not yet set 
Can find no room for vain regret, 
And only folly crowns as queen 
Its Might-have-been ! 




A SONa WITHOUT WORDS. 




MAEY ELIZABETH BLAKE. 

" Play us a tune," cried the children, 

" Something merry and sweet, 
Like birds that sing in the summer. 

Or nodding o' the wheat. 
Dancing across the meadows 

While the warm sun burns and glows, 
Till we fancy we smell in winter 

The breath of a sweet June rose." 

" Play us a tune," said the mother, 

" Something tender and low. 
Like a thought that comes in the autumn, 

When the leaves are ready to go. 





OUB FAVOBITES. 

When the fire on the hearth is lighted, 
And we know not which is best, 

The long, bright evenings coming. 
Or the long, bright days at rest." 

And the dear little artist bending 

Over the swaying bow. 
Drew tones so merry and gladsome. 

And tones so soft and low, 
That we scarce could teU who Ustened, 

"Which song had the sweetest words, 
The one that sang of the fireside 

Or the one that sang of the birds. 




TOMMY'S PRATER. 

In a dark and dismal aUey where the sunshine never came. 
Dwelt a little lad named Tommy, sickly, delicate, and lame ; 
He had never yet been healthy, but had lain since he was bom. 
Dragging out his weak existence weU-nigh hopeless and forlorn. 

He was six, was Uttle Tommy, 'twas just five years ago 

Since his drunken mother dropped him, and the babe was crippled 

so. 
He had never known the comfort of a mother's tender care. 
But her cruel blows and curses made his pain stOl worse to bear. 

There he lay within the cellar from the morning till the night. 
Starved, neglected, cursed, Ol-treated, naught to make his dull life 

bright ; 
Not a single friend to love him, not a living thing to love — 
For he knew not of a Saviour, or a heaven up above. 

'Twas a quiet, svimmer evening ; and the alley, too, was still ; 
Tommy's little heart was sinking, and he felt so lonely, tiH, 
Floating up the quiet alley, wafted inward from the street, 
Came the sound of some one singing, sounding, oh ! so clear and 
sweet. 




■1^ 






TOMMY'S PBATEB. 

Eagerly did Tommy listen as the singing neai'er came — 
Oh ! that he could see the singer ! How he wished he wasn't lame. 
Then he called and shonted loudly, till the singer heard the sound, 
And on noting whence it issued, soon the little cripple found. 

'Twas a maiden rough and rugged, hair unkempt, and naked feet, 
AU her garments torn and ragged, her appearance far from neat ; 
" So yer called me," said the maiden, " wonder wot yer wants o' me ; 
Most folks call me Singing Jessie ; wot may your name chance to 
be?" 

" My name's Tommy ; I'm a cripple, and I want to hear you sing. 
For it makes me feel so happy — sing me something, anything." 
Jessie laughed, and answered, smiling, " I can't stay here very long. 
But I'U sing a hynm to please you, wot I caUs the ' Glory song.' " 

Then she sang to him of heaven, pearly gates, and streets of gold, 
Where the happy angel children are not starved or nipped with 

cold; 
But where happiness and gladness never can decrease or end, 
And where Mnd and loving Jesus is their Sovereign and their 

Friend. 

Oh ! how Tommy's eyes did glisten as he drank in every word 
As it f eU from " Singing Jessie " — was it true, what he had heard ? 
And so anxiously he asked her : " Is there really such a place ? " 
And a tear began to trickle down his pallid little face. 

" Tommy, you're a Httle heathen ; why, it's up beyond the sky, 
And i£ yer will love the Saviour, yer shall go there when yer die." 
" Then," said Tommy, " teU me, Jessie, how can I the Saviour love, 
When I'm down in this 'ere cellar, and he's up in heaven above ? " 

So the little ragged maiden, who had heard at Sunday-school 
All about the way to heaven, and the Christian's golden rule, 
Taught the little cripple Tommy how to love, and how to pray, 
Then she sang a " Song of Jesus," kissed his cheek and went away 

Tommy lay within the cellar which had grown so dark and cold, 
Thinking all about the children in the streets of shining gold ; 
And he heeded not the darkness of that damp and chilly room, 
For the joy in Tommy's bosom could disperse the deepest gloom. 







OVB FAVORITES. 

" Oh ! if I could only see it," thought the cripple, as he lay. 
" Jessie said that Jesus hstens, and I think I'U try and pray 
So he put his hands together, and he closed his little eyes. 
And in accents weak, yet earnest, sent this message to the skies : 

" Gentle Jesus, please forgive me, as I didn't know afore 
That yer cared for httle cripples who is weak and very poor. 
And I never heard of heaven till that Jessie came to-day 
And told me all about it, so I wants to try and pray. 

" You can see me, can't yer, Jesus ? Jessie told me that yer could, 
And I somehow must beheve it, for it seems so prime and good ; 
And she told me if I loved you, I should see yer when I die. 
In the bright and happy heaven that is up beyond the sky. 

" Lord, I'm only just a cripple, and I'm no use here below. 
For I heard my mother whisper she'd be glad if I could go ; 
And I'm cold and hungry sometimes ; and I feel so lonely, too. 
Can't yer take me, gentle Jesus, up to heaven along o' you f 

<' Oh ! I'd be so good and patient, and I'd never cry or fret ; 
And your kindness to me, Jesus, I would surely not forget ; 
I would love you aU I know of, and would never make a noise — 
Can't you find me just a comer, where I'll watch the other boys? 

" Oh ! I think yer'U do it, Jesus, something seems to teU me so. 
For I feel so glad and happy, and I do so want to go ; 
How I long to see yer, Jesus, and the children all so bright ! 
Come and fetch me, won't yer, Jesus ? Come and fetch me home 
to-night ! " 

Tommy ceased his supphcation, he had told his soul's desire. 
And he waited for the answer till his head began to tire ; 
Then he turned towards his corner, and lay huddled in a heap, 
Closed his little eyes so gently, and was quickly fast asleep. 

Oh, I wish that every scoffer could liave seen his Httle face 
As he lay there in the comer, in that damp and noisome place ; 
For his countenance was shining like an angel's, fair and bright, 
And it seemed to fiU the cellar with a holy, heavenly hght. 







ONE OF THE LITTLE ONES. 



He liad only heard of Jesus from a ragged singing girl, 

He might well have wondered, pondered, till his brain began to 

whirl 
But he took it as she told it, and beUeved it then and there. 
Simply trusting in the Saviour, and His kind and tender care. 

In the morning, when the mother came to wake her crippled boy. 
She discovered that his features wore a look of sweetest joy, 
And she shook him somewhat roughly, but the cripple's face was 

cold — 
He had gone to join the children in the streets of shining gold. 

Tommy's prayer had soon been answered, and the Angel Death 

had come 
To remove him from his cellar, to his bright and heavenly home. 
Where sweet comfort, joy, and gladness never can decrease or end. 
And where Jesus reigns eternally, his Sovereign and his Friend. 





ONE OF THE LITTLE ONES. 

'TwAS a crowded street, and a cry of joy 
Came from a ragged, barefoot boy — 
A cry of eager and glad surprise. 
And he opened wide his great black eyes, 
As he held before him a coin of gold 
He had found in a heap of rubbish old 
By the curbstone there. 

The passers-by 
Paused at hearing that joyous cry. 
As if 'twere a heavenly chime that rung. 
Or a note from some angel-song had been sung, 
There, in the midst of the hurry and din 
That raged the city's heart within, 
And they wondered to hear that song of grace 
Sung in such strange, imusual place. 





OUR FAVORITES. 





As ofttimes into a dungeon deep 
Some ray of siinliglit perchance will creep, 
So did that innocent childish cry 
Break on the musings of passers-by, 
Bidding them all at once forget 
Stocks, quotations, and tare and tret. 
And the thousand cares with which are rife 
The daily rounds of a business life. 

" How it sparkles ! " the yoimgster cried, 
As the golden piece he eagerly eyed ; 
" Oh, see it shine ! " and he laughed aloud ; 
Little heeding the curious crowd 
That gathered around, " Hurrah ! " said he, 
" How glad my poor old mother will be ! 
m buy her a brand-new Sunday hat, 
And a pair of shoes for Nell, at that, 
And baby sister shall have a dress — 
There'll be enough for all, I guess ; 
And then I'U " 

" Here," said a surly voice, 
" That money's mine. You can take your choice 
Of giving it up or going to jail." 
The youngster trembled, and then turned pale 
As he looked and saw before him stand 
A burly drayman with outstretched hand ; 

Rough and uncouth was the fellow's face. 
And without a single line or trace 
Of the goodness that makes the world akin. 
" Come, be. quick ! or I'll take you in," 
Said he. 

" For shame ! " said the listening crowd. 
The ruffian seemed for a moment cowed. 
" The money's mine," he blustered out ; 
" I lost it yesterday hereabout. 
I don't want nothin' but what's my own, 
And I am going to have it." 





THE CRBISTMAS BABY. 

The lad alone 
Was silent. A tear stood in his eye, 
And he brushed it away ; he would not cry. 
" Here, mister," he answered, " take it, then ; 

If it's youi-s, it's yours ; if it hadn't been 

A sob told all he would have said, 

Of the hope so suddenly raised, now dead ; 

And then with a sigh, which voliunes told. 

He dropped the glittering piece of gold 

Into the other's hand. Once more 

He sighed — and his dream of wealth was o'er. 

But no ! Himianity hath a heart 

Always ready to take the part 

Of cMLdish sorrow, whenever found. 



" Let's make up a purse " — the word went round 
Through the Mndly crowd, and the hat was passed, 
And the coins came falling thick and fast. 

" Here, sonny, take this," said they. Behold, 
Full twice as much as the piece of gold 
He had given up was in the hand 
Of the urchin. He could not understand 
It all. The tears came thick and fast. 
And his grateful heart found voice at last. 

But, lo ! when he spoke, the crowd had gone — 
Left him, ia gratitude, there alone. 
Who'U say there is not some sweet good-will 
And Idndness left in this cold world stiU ? 





THE CHRISTMAS BABY. 

Hoot ! ye little rascal ! ye come it on me this way, 
Crowdin' yerself amongst us this blusterin' wiater's day, 
Knowin' that we already have three of ye, an' seven, 
An' tryin' to make yerself out a Christmas present o' Heaven ! 







OUB FAVOBITES. 



Ten of ye have we now, sir, for this world to abuse ; 

An' Bobbie he have no waistcoat, an' Nellie she have no shoes, 

An' Sammie he have no shirt, sir (I tell it to his shame), 

An' the one that was just before ye we ain't had time to name ! 

An' all o' the banks be smashin', an' on us poor folk f aU ; 
An' Boss he whittles the wages when work's to be had at all ; 
An' Tom he have cut his foot off, an' Ues in a woful phght, 
An' all of us wonders at mornin' as what we shall eat at night ; 

An' but for your father an' Sandy a-findin' somewhat to do. 
An' but for the preacher's woman, who often helps us through, 
An' but for your poor dear mother ardoin' twice her part, 
Te'd a-seen us aU in heaven afore ye was ready to start ! 

An' now ye have come, ye rascal ! so healthy an' fat an' sound, 
A-weighin', I'U wager a doUar, the full of a dozen pound ! 
With yer mother's eyes a-flashin', yer father's flesh an' bmld. 
An' a good big mouth an' stomach all ready for to be filled ! 

No, no ! don't cry, my baby ! hush up, my pretty one ! 
Don't get my chaff in yer eye, boy — I only was just in fun. 
Ye'U like us when ye know us, although we're cur'us folks ; 
But we don't get much victual, an' half our hvin' is jokes ! 

Why, boy, did ye take me ia earnest ? come sit upon my knee ; 
I'U teU ye a secret, youngster, I'll name ye after me ; 
Ye shall have aU yer brothers an' sisters with ye to play, 
An' ye shaU have yer carriage, an' ride out every day ! 

Why, boy, do ye think ye'U suffer ? I'm gettin' a trifle old, 

But it'U be many years yet before I lose my hold ; 

An' \t I should fall on the road, boy, still, them's yer brothers, 

there. 
An' not a rogue of 'em ever would see ye harmed a hair 

Say ! when ye come from heaven, my little namesake dear. 

Did ye see, 'mongst the httle girls there, a face like this one here ? 

That was yer little sister — she died a year ago. 

An' aU of us cried like babies when they laid her imder the snow ! 





BEFENTANCE. 



Hang it ! if all the rich men I ever see or knew 
Come here with all their traps, "boy, an' offered 'em for you, 
I'd show 'em to the door, sir, so quick they'd think it odd, 
Before I'd sell to another my Christmas gift from God ! 




REPENTANCE. 

If the Lord were to send down blessings from heaven as thick and 

as fast as the fall 
Of the drops of rain or the flakes of snow, I'd love Him and thank 

Him for all ; 
But the gift; that I'd crave, and the gift; that I'd keep, if I'd only 

one to choose, 
Is the gift of a broken and contrite heart, — and that He will not 

refuse. 

For what is my wish and what is my hope, when I've toiled and 

prayed and striven. 
All the days that I Hve upon earth ? It is this — ^to be forgiven. 
And what is my wish and what is my hope, but to end where I 

begin. 
With an eye that looks to my Saviour, and a heart that mourns 

for its sin ! 

"Well, perhaps you think I am going to say I'm the chief of sinners ; 

and then 
You'll teU me, as far as you can see, I'm no worse than other men. 
I've Uttle to do with better or worse — I haven't to judge the rest ; 
If other men are no better than I, they are bad enough at the best. 

I've nothing to do with other folks ; it isn't for me to say 

What sort of men the Scribes might be, or the Pharisees in their 

day; 
But we know that it wasn't for such as they that the kingdom of 

heaven was meant ; 
And we're told we shall likewise perish unless we do repent. 







OUB FAVORITES. 

And what have I done, perhaps you'll say, that I should fret and 

grieve ' 
I didn't "wrangle, nor curse, nor swear ; I didn't lie nor thieve ; 
I'm clear of cheating and drinking and debt. — ^Well, perhaps, but 

I cannot say ; 
For some of these I hadn't a mind, and some didn't come in my 

way. 

For there's many a thing I could wish undone, though the law 

might not be broken ; 
And there's many a word, now I come to think, that I could wish 

unspoken. 
I did what I thought to be the best, and I said just what came to 

my mind; 
I wasn't so honest that I could boast, and I'm sure that I wasn't 

kind. 

Wen, come to things that I might have done, and then there'll be 

more to say ; 
We'U ask for the broken hearts I healed, and the tears that I wiped 

away. 
I thought for myself and I wrought for myself — ^for myself, and 

none beside : 
Just as if Jesus had never lived, as if He had never died. 

But since my Lord has looked on me, and since He has bid me look 
Once on my heart and once on my life and once on His blessed 

Book, 
And once on the cross where He died for me. He has taught me 

that I must mend. 
If I'd have Him to be my Saviour, and keep Him to be my Friend. 

Since He's taken this long account of mine and has crossed it 

through and through, 
Though He's left me nothing at all to pay. He has given me 

enough to do ; 
He has taught me things that I never knew, with aU my worry 

and care, — 
Things that have brought me down to my knees, and things that 

will keep me there. 







THE FIBEMAN'S STOEY. 

He has shown me the law that works in Him and the law that 

works in me, — 
Life unto life and death unto death — and has asked how these agree ; 
He has made me weary of self and of pel£ ; yes, my Saviour has 

bid me grieve 
For the days and years when I didn't pray, when I didn't love nor 

beheve. 

Since He's taken this cold, dark heart of mine, and has pierced it 

through and through. 
He has made me mourn both for things I did and for things that 

I didn't do ; 
And what is my wish and what is my thought, but to end where I 

begin. 
With an eye that looks to my Saviour, and a heart that mourns 

for its sin ! 




THE FIREMAN'S STORY. 

"A FRIGHTFUL face 1 " Wal, yes, yer correct ; 

That man on the enjine thar. 
Don't pack the handsomest countenance — 

Every inch of it sportin' a scar ; 
But I tell you, pard, thar ain't money enough 

Piled up in the national banks 
To buy that face — nor a single scar — 

(No, I never indulges. Thanks.) 

Yes, Jim is an old-time engineer. 

An' a better one never war knowed ! 
Bin a-runnin' yar since the fust machine 

War put on the Quincy Road ; 
An' thar ain't a galoot that pulls a plug 

From Maine to the jumpin'-off place 
That knows more about the big iron hoss 

Than bim with the battered-up face. 






OVB FAVORITES. 

" Git hurt in a mash-up ? " No, 'twar done 

In sort o' legitimate way ; 
He got it a-tryin' to save a gal 

Up yer on the road last May. 
I heven't much time fur to spin you the yam, 

For we pull out at two twenty-five — 
Jist wait tUl I climb up an' toss in some coal 

So's to keep old " 90 " alive- 
Jim war pullin' the Burlin'ton passenger then, 

Left Quincy a half an hour late, 
An' war skinnin' along purty hvely, so's not 

To lay out No. 21 freight. 
The " 90 " war more than a-'hoopin' 'em up. 

An' a-quiveria' in every nerve ! 
When aU to once Jim yeUed " Merciful God ! " 

As she shoved her sharp nose 'round a curve. 

I jumped to his side o' the cab, an' ahead, 

'Bout two hundred paces or so. 
Stood a gal on the track, her hands raised aloft, 

An' her face jist as white as the snow. 
It seems she war too paralyzed with the fright 

That she coiddn't move f or'ard or back, 
An' when Jim pulled the whistle she f aiated an' fell 

Right down in a heap on the track ! 

I'U never f orgit till the day o' my death 

The look that cum over Jim's face ; 
He throw'd the old lever cla'r back hke a shot 

So's to slaken the " 90's " wild pace. 
Then let on the air-brakes as quick as a flash, 

An' out through the window he fled. 
An' skinned 'long the runnin' board cla'r in front, 

An' lay on the pilot ahead. 

Then jist as we reached whar the poor creetur' lay, 

He grabbed a tight hold of her arm. 
An' raised her right up so's to throw her one side, 

Out o' reach of danger an' harm. 






THE FIREMAN'S STORY. 

But somehow lie slipped an' fell with his head 
On the rail as he throw'd the young lass, 

An' the pilot, in. strikin' him, ground up his face 
In a frightful and horrible mass ! 

As soon as we stopped I backed up the train 

To that spot where the poor feUow lay, 
An' thar sot the gal with his head in her lap, 

An' wipia' the warm blood away. 
The tears roUed in torrents right down from her eyes, 

While she sobbed like her heart war aU broke — 
I teU you, my friend, such a sight as that ar' 

Would move the tough heart of an oak ! 

We put Jim aboard an' run back to town, 

Whar for week arter week the boy lay, 
A-hoveriu' right in the shadder o' death, 

An' that gal by his bed every day. 
But nursiu' an' doctoriu' brought him aroimd — 

Kinder snatched him right outen the grave — 
His face ain't so han'som' as 'twar, but his heart 

Remains just as noble an' brave. 





Of course thar's a sequel — as story-books say — 

He fell dead in love, did this Jim ; 
But he hadn't the heart to ax her to have 

Sich a battei''d-up rooster as him. 
She know'd how he felt, an' last New Year's Day 

War the fust o' leap-year, you know. 
So she jist cornered Jim an' proposed on the spot, 

An' you bet he didn't say no. 

He's buildin' a house up thar on the hill, 

An' has laid up a snug pile o' cash ; 
The weddin's to be on the first o' next May, 

Jist a year from the day o' the mash — 
The gal says he risked his dear life to save hers, 

An' she'll jist turn the tables about, 
An' give him the life that he saved — ^thar's the bell, 

Good-day, sir, we're goin' to pull out. 





OUB FAVORITES. 




THE LOST BABIES. 

Come, my wife, put down tlie Bible, 

Lay yoiu" glasses on the book, 
Both of us are bent and aged — 

Backward, mother, let us look. 
This is stiU the same old homestead 

Where I brought you long ago. 
When the hair was bright with sunshine 

That is now like winter's snow. 
Let us talk about the babies, 

As we sit here aU alone. 
Such a merry troop of youngsters ; 

How we lost them one by one. 

Jack, the first of all the party, 

Came to us one winter's night ; 
Jack, you said, should be a parson. 

Long before he saw the Ught. 
Do you see the great cathedral. 

Filled the transept and the nave. 
Hear the organ grandly pealing. 

Watch the silken hangings wave ; 
See the priest in robes of oflB.ee, 

With the altar at his back — 
Wotdd you think that gifted preacher 

Could be your own Uttle Jack ? 

Then a girl with cui'ly tresses 

Used to chmb upon my knee, 
Like a little fairy princess 

Ruling at the age of three. 
With the years there came a wedding — 

How your fond heart swelled with pride 
When the lord of all the country 

Chose yom* baby for his bride ! 






THE STAGE-DBWEB'S STOBY. 



Watch that stately carriage coming, 
And the form reclining there — 

Would you think that brUhant lady 
Could be youi- own httle Clare ? 

Then the last, a blue-eyed youngster — 

I can hear him prattling now — 
Such a strong and sturdy fellow. 

With his broad and honest brow. 
How he used to love his mother ! 

Ah ! I see your trembhng Up ! 
He is far off on the water. 

Captain of a royal ship. 
See the bronze upon his forehead, 

Hear the voice of stem command — 
'Tis the boy who clung so fondly 

To his mother's gentle hand ? 

Ah ! my wife, we've lost the babies. 

Ours so long and ours alone ; 
What are we to these great people, 

Stately men and women gi'own ? 
Seldom do we ever see them : 

Yes, a bitter tear-drop starts. 
As we sit here in the fire-light, 

Lonely hearth and lonely hearts. 
All their Uves are full without us ; 

They'U stop long enough one day 
Just to lay us hx the church-yard, ' 

Then they'll each go on their way. 





THE STAaE-DRIVER'S STORY. 

I KNOW it's presunun' for one sich as me 
For to talk to a lady so grand ; 

It's jist hke an imp from Satan's domains 
Chinnin' one from the heavenlv land ! 







OUB FAVORITES. 

But you've axed for my story, ma'am, neat and perlite, 

And I'll tell it the best thet I kin ; 
Leavin' out all thet's rough or of vulgar degree, 

Skippin' over all teches of sin. 

I cum to these mountains in '50, and hyar 

I've remained, as yer see, ever sence ; 
I drove on the Overland Line 'tU the keers 

Slung the coaches 'way over the fence. 
An' then I tried minin', an' went through my pile 

In a manner most decidedly flat ; 
Then I chopped on that lay, an' got in fur to herd 

Texas cattle up thar on the Platte. 

" From the States ? " do you ask ? Yes, I fust saw the light 

In Ohio, an' right thar I stayed 
Tin I tired o' the civilized racket, ye see ; 

Couldn't coon to legitimate trade. 
Then I packed up my duds an' bid — some one — good-bye, 

An' headed my hoss for the "West, 
An' cum to these mountains to buck agin luck — 

To swallow my dose with the rest ! 

" Got a wife ? " Lookee hyar, ma'am — I'd rather not talk 

On sieh subjects as that, fur ye see, 
It moutn't be flatterin' to let out the truth ; 

It perhaps 'd reflect upon me. 
" Got an object in axin," ye say ? "Wal, I swar ! 

I can't see how I'd interest you ; 
An' I guess — eh ? " you must know ? " Wal, then, ma'am, I had 

A wife thet was noble an' true. 

Ye see, 'twar Hke this : When I Hved in the States 

Somehow I war all outen luck, 
An' I stood iu with nothin' but cussed hard times, 

No matter what racket I struck ; 
Till at last I gin up an' concluded to leave — 

An' Mary approved o' the plan. 
An' sed, " Go along, Tom, an' when ye git rich 

Ye'U find yer companion on han'." 







THE STAGE-DBIVEB'S STORY. 

But the same cussed luck follered right in my trail, 

So I jist quit a-Tvi"itin' back home — 
Fur I "wanted the folks thar to think White war dead, 

An' continued as usual to roam. 
I strayed hyar an' thar — with no settled place — 

Fur to camp — with no object in view ; 
No ambition to rastle fur more than enough 

To grub me — ^indeed, ma'am, it's true ! 



" Do I love Mary yit ? " Why, ma'am — (dam it aU, 

Thet smoke keeps a-smartin' my eyes. 
Makes 'm water as though I war drappin' sum weep — 

WTien the wind's south thet smoke allers flies)." 
"Want an answer?" Wal, ma'am, I mus' say (darn thet 
smoke) — 

I mus' say thet in all these long years 
She's bin right in my thoughts, an' many's the night 

I lay thinkin' of Mary — ^in tears. 

Her pieter I cany right hyar in my heart — 

Jist a thought of her fills me with bliss. 
An' the day grows as dark as the bottomless pit 

When I think p'r'aps she's dead afore this. 
I've treated her shaddy, but, ma'am, 'twar hard luck 

Thet made me shake home in thet style, 
An' I'm hopin' tiU yit the keerds 'U soon change 

An' begin to run right arter a while ! 

An' if ever I git jist a small stake ahead, 

I'm a-goin' to toddle back thar. 
An' I'll ax Mary's pardon an' settle right down, 

An' be decent — I will, ma'am, I'U swar ! 
What's that ? lookee hyar, ma'am ; great heavens ! jist turn 

Ter face more around ter this light ! 
Hist yer veil — great Lord of aU marcy above ! 

Why, Mary Elizabeth White ! 







OUB FAVOBITES. 



BACK WHERE THEY USED TO BE. 

Pap's got Ms patent right, and ricli as all creation ; 

But Where's the peace and comfort that we aU had before ? 
Let's go a-visitin' back to Grriggsby Station — 

Back where we used to be so happy and so pore ! 

The hkes of us a Kvin' here ! It's jiist a mortal pity 

To see us in this great, big house, with cyarpets on the stairs, 

And the pump right in the kitchen ; and the city ! city ! city ! — 
And nothing but the city all around us everywheres ! 

Climb clean above the roof and look from the steeple. 
And never see a robin, nor a beech or eUum tree ! 

And right here, in earshot of at least a thousan' people, 

And none that neighbors with us or we want to go and see ! 

Let's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby Station — 

Back where the latch-string's a-hangin' from the door, 

And every neighbor 'round the place is dear as a relation — 
Back where we used to be so happy and so pore ! 

I want to see the Wiggenses — the whole kit and billin', 
A-driven' up from Shallow Ford, to stay the Simday through, 

And I want to see 'em hitchen' at their son-in-law's and pilin' 
Out there at Lizy Ellen's like they used to do ! 

I want to see the piece-quilts that Jones girl is makin'. 
And I want to pester Laury 'bout their freckled hired hand, 

And joke about the widower she come purt' nigh a-takin', 
Till her pap got his pension 'lowed in time to save his land. 

Let's go a-visitin' back to Griggsby Station — 

Back Where's nothin' aggervatin' any more. 
She's away safe in the wood around the old location — 

Back where we used to be so happy and so pore ! 

I want to see Merindy and help her with her sewin' 

And hear her talk so lovin' of her man that's dead and gone, 





JOHN BURNS, OF GETTYSBURG. 



And stand up with Emanuel, to show me how he's gi'owin', 
And smile as I have saw her 'fore she put her mournin' on 

And I want to see the Samples, on the old lower Eighty, 
Where John, our oldest boy, he was took and buried — ^for 

His own sake and Katy's — and I want to cry with Katy, 
As she reads aU his letters over, writ from the war. 

What's in all this grand life and high situation, 
And nary pink for hoUyhawk bloomin' at the door ? 

Let's go arvisitin.' back to Grriggsby Station — 
Back where we used to be so happy and so pore. 





JOHN BURNS, OF GETTYSBUEG. 

Have you heard the story that gossips tell 
Of Burns of Gettysburg ?— No ? Ah, weU : 
Brief is the glory that hero earns, 
Briefer the story of poor John Burns : 
He was the f eUow who won renown, — 
The only man who didn't back down 
When the rebels rode through his native town 
But held his own in the fight next day. 
When all his townsfolk ran away. 
That was in July, sixty-three. 
The very day that General Lee, 
Flower of Southern chivalry, 
Bafiled and beaten, backward reeled 
From a stubborn Meade and a barren field. 
I might tell how, but the day before, 
John Bums stood at his cottage door. 
Looking down the village street, 
Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine, 
He heard the low of his gathered kine, 
And felt their breath with incense sweet ; 
Or I might say when the sunset burned 
The old farm gable, he thought it turned 





OUB FAVOBITES. 



The milk that fell, in a babbling flood 

Into the milk-paU, red as blood ! 

Or how he fancied the hum of bees 

Were bullets buzzing among the trees. 

But all such fanciful thoughts as these 

Were strange to a practical man like Bums, 

Who minded only his own concerns, 

Troubled no more by fancies fine 

Than one of his calm-eyed^ long-tailed kine. 

Quite old-fashioned and matter-of-fact, 

Slow to argue, but quick to act. 

That was the reason, as some folks say. 

He fought so well on that terrible day. 

And it was terrible. On the right 

Raged for hours the heavy fight. 

Thundered the battery's double bass, — 

Difficult music for men to face ; 

While on the left — where now the graves 

Undulate like the hving waves 

That all that day imceasing swept 

Up to the pits the rebels kept — 

Round-shot ploughed the upland glades, 

Sown with bullets, reaped with blades ; 

Shattered fences here and there 

Tossed their sphnters in the air ; 

The very trees were stripped and bare ; 

The bams that once held yellow graia 

Were heaped with harvests of the slain ; 

The cattle bellowed on the plain, 

The turkeys screamed with might and main, 

And brooding barn-fowl left their rest, 

With strange shells bursting in each nest. 





Just where the tide of battle turns. 
Erect and lonely stood old John Bums. 
How do you think the man was dressed'? 
He wore an ancient long buff vest. 
Yellow as saffron, — ^but his best ; 
And, buttoned over his manly breast, 





JOHN BUBNS, OF GETTYSBUBG. 




Was a bright blue coat, with rolling collar, 
And large gilt buttons, — size of a doUar, — 
"With tails that the country-folk called " swaUer." 
He wore a broad-brimmed, beU-crowned bat. 
White as the locks on which it sat. 
Never had such a sight been seen 
For forty years on the village green. 
Since old John Burns was a country beau 
And went to the " quiltings " long ago. 

Close at his elbows all that day, 

Veterans of the Peninsula, 

Sunburnt and bearded, charged away ; 

And striphngs, downy of Up and chia, — 

Clerks that the Home Guard mustered ia, — 

Glanced, as they passed, at the hat he wore, 

Then at the rifle his right hand bore ; 

And hailed him, from out their youthful lore. 

With scraps of a slangy repertoire: 

" How are you. White Hat f " " Put her through." 

" Youi* head's level," and " Bully for you ! " 

CaUed him " Daddy," — begged he'd disclose 

The name of the tailor who made his clothes, 

And what was the value he set on those ; 

While Bums, unmindful of jeer and scoflE, 

Stood there picking the rebels off, — 

With his long brown rifle, and bell-crown hat. 

And the swallow-tails they were laughing at. 

'Twas but a moment, for that respect 

Which clothes aU courage their voices checked, 

And something the wildest could understand 

Spake in the old man's strong white hand ; 

And his corded throat, and the lurking frown 

Of his eyebrows under his old beU-erown ; 

Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe 

Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw 

In the antique vestments and long white hair. 

The Past of the Nation in battle there ; 

And some of the soldiers since declare 






OUE FAVORITES. 

That the gleam of his old white hat afar, 
Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre, 
That day was their oriflamme of war. 

So raged the battle. You know the rest : 
How the rebels, beaten and backward pressed, 
Broke at the final charge and ran. 
At which John Bums — a practical man — 
Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows. 
And then went back to his bees and cows. 

That is the story of old John Bums : 
This is the moral the reader learns : 
In fighting the battle, the question's whether 
You'U show a hat that's white, or a feather ! 




GOOD-NIGHT. 



CHABLES M. DICKINSON. 




When the lessons and the tasks are aU ended, 

And the school for the day is dismiss'd, 
The Uttle ones gather around me, 

To bid me good-night and be kiss'd : 
Oh, the httle white arms that encircle 

My neck in their tender embrace ! 
Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven. 

Shedding sunshine of love on my face ! 

And when they are gone I sit dreaming 

Of my childhood, too lovely to last : 
Of joy that my heart will remember 

While it wakes to the pulse of the past, 
Ere the world and its wickedness made me 

A partner of sorrow and sin ; 
When the glory of God was about me. 

And the glory of gladness within. 






GOOD-NIGHT. 

All my heail; gi'ows as weak as a woman's, 

And the fountains of feeling will flow, 
When I tMnk of the paths steep and stony, 

Where the feet of the dear ones must go ; 
Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them, 

Of the tempest of Fate blowing wild ; 
Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy 

As the innocent heart of a child ! 

They are idols of hearts and of households ; 

They are angels of Ood in disguise ; 
His sunlight stiU sleeps in their tresses. 

His glory still gleams in their eyes ; 
Those truants fi'om home and from heaven, 

They have made me more manly and mild, 
And I know now how Jesus could liken 

The kingdom of God to a child. 

I ask not a hfe for the dear ones, 

AH radiant, as others have done. 
But that life may have just enough shadow 

To temper the glare of the sun : 
I would pray Grod to guard them from evil, 

But my prayer would bound back to myself ; 
Ah ! a seraph may pray for a sinner, 

But a sinner must pray for himself. 

The twig is so easily bended, 

I have banished the rule and the rod ; 
I have taught them the goodness of knowledge, 

They have taught me the goodness of God ; 
My heart is the dungeon of darkness, 

Where I shut them for breaking a rule ; 
My frown is suf8.cient correction ; 

My love is the law of the school. 

I shall leave the old house in the autumn, 
To traverse its threshold no more ; 

Ah ! how I shall sigh for the dear ones 
That meet me each mom at the door ! 






OUB FAVOBITES. 

I shall miss tlie " good-nights" and the kisses, 
And the gush of their innocent glee, 

The group on the green, and the flowers 
That are brought every morning to me. 

I shall miss them at mom and at even. 

Their song in the school and the street ; 
I shall miss the low hum of their voices, 

And the tread of their delicate feet. 
"When the lessons of life are all ended, 

And Death says, " The school is dismiss'd 1 " 
May the little ones gather around me. 

To bid me good-night, and be kiss'd ! 








FAVORITE THOUGHTS BEAUTIFULLY 

TOLD. 



Adversity is a trial of principle. Without it a man hardly knows 
whether he is honest or not. — Fielding. 

Ambition is a spirit in the world 
That causes all the ebbs and flows of nations, 
Keeps mankind sweet by action ; without that 
The world would be a filthy, settled mud. — Crotm. 

There is many a man whose tongue might govern midtitudes if 
he could govern his tongue. — Anon. 

BENEVOLENCE. 

A man or woman without benevolence is not a perfect being ; 
they are only a deformed personality of true manhood or woman- 
hood. — Lamb. 

BIRTHDAYS. 

Birthdays are as nule-posts on the road of time, 

Each with its two arms pointing different ways : 

On one inscribed in flaming characters, 

" The Past ; " and from the other darkly gleam, 

Through the murky mists, in letters dimly seen, 

The words, " Straightforward for eternity." — Byron. 

BEAUTY. 

A beautiful eye makes sUence eloquent ; a kind eye makes con- 
tradiction an assent ; an enraged eye makes beauty deformed. — Ad- 
dismi. 






FAVORITE THOUGHTS 



BIBIiB. 




It is a belief in the Bible whicb has served me as the guide of 
my moral and literary life. — Goethe. 

BETTING. 

Some play for gain ; to pass time others play 

For nothing ; both do play the fool, I say ; 

Nor time or coin I'll lose or idly spend ; 

Who gets by play, proves loser in the end. — Heath. 

BOASTING. 

We rise in glory as we sink in pride ; 

Where boasting ends, there dignity begins. — Young. 

BRAVERY. 

I dare do aU that may become a man ; 
Who dares do more is none. — Shakespeare. 



BREVITY. 



Be silent always, when you doubt your sense. 
And speak, tho' sure, with seeming diffldence.- 



-Pope. 



CHARACTER. 

You cannot dream yourself into a character ; you must hammer 
and forge yourself one. — Froude. 

CHILDREN. 

Children are what the mothers are ; 

No fondest father's proudest care 

Can fashion so the infant heart 

As those creative beams that dart. 

With all their hopes and fears, upon 

The cradle of a sleeping son. — Robert Savage Landor. 

CONCENTRATION. 

Every man who means to be successful, must single out from a 
vast number of possible employments some specialty, and to that 
devote himself thoroughly. — Garfield. 






BEAUTIFULLY TOLD. 



COURTESY. 




True courage and courtesy always go hand in hand. The brav- 
est men are the most forgiving, and the most anxious to avoid 
quarrels, — Thackeray. 

COURAGE. 

It requires a good, strong man to say : " I was mistaken, and am 
sorry." A weak man hesitates and often fails to do the right thing. 
— Franklin. 

DEATH. 

Death, when unmask'd, shows us a friendly face, 
And is a terror only at a distance. — Goldsmith. 

ELOQUENCE. 

Eloquence is the language of nature, and cannot be learnt in 
the schools. — Colton. 

ENERGY. 

Is there one whom difficulties dishearten, who bends to the 
storm ? He will do little. Is there one who mil conquer ? That 
kind of man never faUs. — Hunter. 

FORTUNE. 

Every man is the maker of his own fortune, and must be, in 
some measure, the trxmipet of his fame. — Dryden. 

HATRED. 

Malice and hatred are very fretting, and apt to make our minds 
sore and luxeasy. — Tillotson. 



roiiENESS. 

Idleness is a constant sin, and labor is a duty. Idleness is but 
the devil's home for temptation, and unprofitable, distracting mus- 
ings. — Baxter. 

MARRIAGE. 

Marriage is the best state for man in general ; and every man is 
a worse man in proportion as he is unfit for the marriage state. 
— Samuel Johnson. 






FAVORITE THOUGHTS 



MONEY. 

A "wise man should have money in his head, but not in his heart. 
— Swift 

MEMORY. 

Memory is the only paradise out of which we cannot be driven 
away. — Bichter. 

OPINION. 

No liberal man would ever impute a charge of unsteadiness to 
another for having changed his opinion. — Cicero. 





TO-MORROW 

Seek not to know to-morrow's doom ; 
That is not ours which is to come. 
The present moments are our store. 

The next should heaven allow 
Then this will be no more ; 

So aU our life is but one instant now. — Congreve. 

TRUTH. 

Man fearlessly his voice for truth should raise, 
When truth would force its way in deed or word, 

Whether for him the popular voice of praise 
Or the cold sheer of unbehef is heard, 

Like the First Martyr, when his voice arose 

Distinct above the hissing of his foes. — Phoebe Gary. 

In men whom men condemn as iU 

I find so much of goodness stOl, 

In men, whom men pronounce divine, 

I find so much of siu and blot, 

I hesitate to draw a line 

Between the two, where God has not. 

— Joaquin Miller. 
Green be the turf above thee, 

Friend of my better days 
None knew thee but to love thee 

None named thee but to praise. 

— Fitz-Oreene Halleck. 






BEAUTIFULLY TOLD. 

The love principle is stronger than the force principle. — Dr. A. 
A. Hodge. 

In great crises it is woman's special lot to soften our misfortune. 
— Napoleon Bonaparte. 

The only way to have a friend is to be one. — B. W. Emerson. 

Always leave the home with loving words, for they may be the last. 

That man lives twice that lives the first life well. — Robert HerricJc. 

We live in deeds, not years ; in thoughts, not breaths ; 

In feelings, not figures on a dial. 
We should count time by heart-throbs. He most hves 

Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best. — Bailey. 

Our hves are albums written through 
With good or iU, with false or true ; 
And as the blessed angels turn 

The pages of our years, 
God grant they read the good with smiles 

And blot the ill with tears. 

— John J. Whittier {in an album.) 

By the fireside still the light is shining. 

The children's arms round the parents twining. 

From love so sweet, O, who would roam ? 

Be it ever so homely, home is home. — Miss MulocJc. 

It is worth a thousand pounds a year to have the habit of look- 
ing on the bright side of things. — Dr. Johnson. 

People seldom improve when they have no other model but them- 
selves to copy after. — Oliver Goldsmith. 

A man should never be ashamed to own that he has been in the 
wrong, which is but saying, in other words, that he is wiser to-day 
than he was yesterday. — Alexander Pope. 







FAFOBITE THOUGHTS 

The intelligence of tlie people is the security of the nation 
Daniel Webster. 

Every man is the architect of his own fortune. — Sallust. 

Life is not measured by the time we live. — George Crdbb. 

Work for some good, be it ever so slowly ; 
Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly ; 
Labor, all labor, is noble and holy, 

— Mrs, Frances S. Osgood. 

To be womanly is the greatest charm of woman. — Gladstone. 

The voices that spoke to me when a child, are now speaking 
through me to the world. — Bishop Simpson. 

I would rather be right than be President. — Henry Clay. 

I hold it true, whatever befall, 
I feel it when I soitow most — 
'Tis better to have loved and lost 

Than never to have loved at all. 

— Alfred Tennyson. 

Death's but a path that must be trod 

If man would ever pass to God. — Thomas Parnell. 

'Tis a blessing to live, but a greater to die ; 
And the best of the world is its path to the sky. 

— John K. Mitchell. 

Do to-day thy present duty. — Goethe. 

Men are judged not by their intentions, but by the result of 
their actions. — Lord Chesterfield. 




Not only strike while the iron is hot, but make it hot by strik- 
ing. — Oliver Crmnwell. 





BEAUTIFULLY TOLD. 

It is little matter at what hour of the day 
The righteous fall asleep. Death cannot come 
To him untimely who has learned to die. 
The less of this brief life, the more of heaven ; 
The shorter time, the longer immortality. 

— Deun Millman 

Say not " Good-night," but in some brighter clime 
Bid me " Good-morning." — Anna Letitia Barbauld. 




Oh ! ever thus, from childhood's hour, 

I've seen my fondest hopes decay ; 
I never loved a tree or flower. 

But 'twas the first to fade away. — Thomas Moore. 

THE DRINKmG SYSTEM. 

Grief banished by wine will come again, 

And come with a deeper shade. 
Leaving, perchance, on the soul a stain 

Which sorrow hath never made. 
Then fill not the temptiug glass for me. 

If mournful, I wiU not be mad ; 
Better sad, because we are sinful, be. 

Than sinful because we are sad. 



WORDS. 

But words are things, and a small drop of ink, 

FaUing, hke dew, upon a thought, produces 

That which makes thousands, perhaps mill ions, think. 

— Byron. 

Of aU bad things by which mankind are cursed. 
Their own bad tempers surely are the worst. 

— Cumberland's Menander. 

A pure faithful love is the creative spirit that makes women 
angels. — Ella Wheeler Wilcox. 




She most attracts, who longest can refuse. — Aaron Rill. 






FAVORITE THOUGHTS 

The purest treasure mortal times afford is spotless reputation, 
that away, men are but gilded loam or painted clay. — Shakespeare. 

Oh, what a tangled web we weave, 
When first we practise to deceive. 

— Scott's Marmion. 

Ah ! little will the lips reveal 

Of all the burning heart may feel. 

— Miss L. U. Landon. 

Success is bom of resolution. — L. B. 0. 

The man who pauses in his honesty, wants little of the villain. 
— Martyn. 

O, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal away 
their brains. — ShaJcespeare. 

Order is Heaven's first law. — Pop^s Essay on Man. 

Of sighs that speak a father's woe, 

Of pangs that none but mothers know. — Sprague. 

He either fears his fate too much, 

Or his deserts are smaU, 
That dares not put it to the touch 

To gain or lose it all. — The Marquis of Montrose. 

THE PAiynLY BIBLE. 

" Thou truest friend man ever knew, 
Thy constancy I've tried ; 
When all were false I've found thee true, 
My counsellor and guide. 

The mines of earth no treasures give 

That could this volume buy, 
In teaching me the way to hve. 

It taught me how to die." 







BEAUTIFULLY TOLD. 



The generous heart shoiild scorn a pleasure which gives others 
pain. — Thompson. 

KINDNESS. 

What is kindness ? It is thinking 

More of others than yourself, 
Counting hearts of feUow mortals 

Of more worth than paltry pelf, 
Acting for your comrades' pleasure, 

Griving without stint or art ; 
It is blessing every creature 

With your hand and voice and heart. 

— Emma C. Bowd. 

Strength for to-day is all that we need. 
For there never will be a to-morrow ; 

For to-morrow will prove but another to-day, 
With its measure of joy and of sorrow. 

— Philip Doddridge. 

Unblemish'd let me hve, or die unknown ; 

O grant an honest fame, or grant me none ! — Pope. 



Be noble ! and the nobleness that Ues 
In other men, sleeping, but never dead, 
Will rise in majesty to meet thine own. 

Tames Russell Lowell. 



Cease, every joy, to glimmer on my mind. 
But leave — oh ! leave the light of Hope behind ! 
What though my winged hours of bhss have been. 
Like angel- visits, few and far between. 

— Thomas Campbell. 

In the lexicon of youth which fate reserves for a bright man- 
hood, there is no such word as — fail. — Edward Bulwer Lytton. 

Errors like straws upon the surface flow ; 

He who would search for pearls must dive below. 

— JDnjden. 






FAVORITE THOUGHTS BEAUTIFULLY TOLD. 




Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, 
To some good angel leave the rest ; 

For Time will teach thee soon the truth, 
There are no birds in last year's nest. — Longfellow. 

Lost wealth may be replaced by industry, lost knowledge by 
study, lost health by temperance or medicine — ^but lost time is 
gone forever. — Samuel Smiles. 

THE LOVE OF GOD. 

Could I with ink the ocean fill, 

And every stick was made a qmll. 

Were the whole earth of parchment made. 

And every man a scribe by trade, 

To write the love of Grod above, 

Would drain the ocean dry ; 
Nor would the scroU contain the whole 

Though stretched from sky to sky. — Anon. 






ASSUMED NAMES OF AUTHORS. 





ASSUMED NAMES OF AUTHOES. 

ASSUMED NAME. KEAL NAME. 

Acton Bell Anne Bronte, sister of Charlotte. 

Agate Whitelaw Reid. 

A. L. 0. B Miss Charlotte Tucker. 

Americus Dr. Francis Lieber. 

Amy Lothrop Miss Anna B. Warner. 

American Girl Abroad Miss Trafton. 

Artemus Ward Charles F. Browne. 

Asa Trenchard. Henry Watterson. 

Aunt Kitty Maria J. Macintosh. 

Annt Mary Mary A. Lathbury, 

Barnacle A, C. Barnes. 

Barry Cornwall Bryan Waller Procter. 

Benauly Benjamin, Austin, and Lyman Abbott, 

Besieged Resident Henry Labouchere. 

Bibliophile Samuel Austin Allibone. 

Bill Arp Charles H. Smith. 

Bookworm Thomas F. Donnelly. 

Boston Bard Robert S. CofBin. 

Boz Charles Dickens. 

Brick Pomeroy Mark M. Pomeroy. 

Burleigh Rev. Matthew Hale Smith. 

Burlington Robert Saunders. 

Christopher Crowfield Mrs. Harriet Beecher Stowe. 

Chrystal Croftangry Sir Walter Scott. 

Claribel Mrs. Caroline Barnard. 

Country Parson A. K. H. Boyd. 

Cousin Alice Mrs. Alice B. Haven. 

Cousin Kate Catherine D. Bell. 

Currer Bell Charlotte Bronte (Mrs. Nichols). 

Dolores Miss Dickson. 

Dunn Browne Rev. Samuel Fiske. 

E. D. E. N Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth. 

Edmund Kirke James Roberts Gilmore. 

Eleanor Kirke Mrs. Nolly Ames. 

Elia Charles Lamb. 

EU Perkins Matthew D. Landon. 

Elizabeth Wetherell Susan Warner. 

Ella Rodman Mrs. Eliza Rodman. 

Ellis Bell Emily Bronte. 

Ettrick Shepherd James Hogg. 

Eugene Pomeroy Thomas F. Donnelly. 






ASSUMED NAMES OF AUTHORS 



ASSUMED NAME. REAL NAME. 

Falconbridge Jonathan P. Kelly. 

Fanny Fern wile of James Parton and sister of N. P. Willis, 

Fanny Forester Emily C. Judson. 

Fat Contributor A. M. Griswold. 

Florence Percy Mrs. Elizabeth Akers. 

Gail Hamilton Miss Mary Abigail Dodge, of Hamilton. 

Gath, also Laertes George Alfred Townsend. 

Geoffrey Crayon "Washington Irving. 

George Eliot Mrs. Marian Lewes Cross. 

George Fitz Boodle William Makepeace Thackeray. 

George Sand Madame Amantine Lucille Aurore Dudevant. 

Grace Greenwood Mrs. Sara J. Lippincott. 

Hans Breitmann Charles Godfrey Leland. 

Hans Yokel A. Oakey Hall. 

Harriet Myrtle Mrs. Lydia P. P. Miller. . 

Harry Hazell Justin Jones. 

Hesba Stretton Miss Hannah Smith. 

Hibernicus De Witt Clinton. 

Historicus Wm. Geo. Vernon Harcourt. 

Hosea Bigelow James Russell Lowell. 

Howard Mordecai Manuel Noah. 

Howard Glyndon Laura C. Redden. 

Hyperion Josiah Quiney. 

Ik Marvel Donald G. Mitchell. 

Irenaeus Rev. S. Irenaeus S. Prime, D.D. 

Isabel William Gilmore Simms. 

Jaques J. Hain Friswell. 

Jay Charlton J. C. Goldsmith. 

Jennie June Mrs. Jennie Cunningham Croly. 

John Chalkhill Izaak Walton. 

John Darby J. C. Garretson. 

John Paul C. H. Webb. 

John PhcBnix, Gentleman George H. Derby. 

Josh Billings Henry W. Shaw. 

Kate Campbell Jane Elizabeth Lincoln. 

K. N. Pepper James M. Morris. 

Laicus Rev. Lyman Abbott. 

Mark Twain Samuel L. Clemens. 

Max Adler Charles H. Clark. 

Minnie Myrtle Miss Anna C. Johnson. 

Mintwood .' Miss Mary A. E. Wager. 

M. Quad Charles B. Lewis. 

Mrs. Partington B. P. Shillaber. 

M. T. Jug Joseph Howard. 

Ned Buutline Edward Z. C. Judson. 

Nym Crinkle A. C. Wheeler 






ASSUMED NAMES OF AUTHORS. 



ASSUMED NAME. REAL NAME. 

Old Bachelor Geo. Wm. Curtis. 

Old Cabinet R. Watson GUder. 

Old 'Un Francis Alexander Durivage, 

Oliver Optic William Taylor Adams. 

Orpheus C. Kerr Robert H. Newell. 

Ouida Louisa De La Rame. 

Owen Meredith Lord Lytton. 

Parson Brownlow William Gunnaway Brownlow, 

Paul Creyton J. T. Trowbridge. 

Pen Holder Rev. Edward Eggleston. 

Perdita Mrs. Mary Robinson. 

Peter Parley S. G. Goodrich. 

Petroleum V. Nasby D. R. Locke. 

Phcenix Sir Henry Martin. 

Poor Richard Benjamin Franklin. 

Porte Crayon David H. Strother. 

Private Miles O'ReUly Charles G. Halpine. 

Q. K. Philander Doesticks, P.B.Mortimer M. Thompson. 

Runnymede ... .Lord Beaconsfield. 

Saxe Holm Miss Rush EUis. 

Shirley Dare Miss Susan Dunning. 

Sophie May Mrs. Eckerson. 

Sophie Sparkle Jennie E. Hicks. 

Susan Coolidge Miss Woolsey. 

Timothy Titcomb Dr. J. G. Holland. 

Veteran Observer E. D. Mansfield. 

Walter Maynard William Beale. 

Warhawk William Palmer. 

Warrington W. P. Robinson. 

Warwick P. 0. Otterson. 






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